


A Telling of Ice and Fire

by Doublehex



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doublehex/pseuds/Doublehex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU] Ripples in the pool, and one change echoes across the Song. Rhaegar stood triumphant on the Trident, while the would-be Usurper's laid dead. Jon Snow is Jonaehrys Targaryen, Daenerys is a Targaryen Princess, and Viserys understands the importance of duty. The details have changed, the circumstances are different, but the Song endures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Beginning of Many

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks George, for everything. 
> 
> This was inspired by DolorusEdditor's wonderful "Our Choices Seal Our Fates".
> 
> You can alternatively read this on a site I made for the fic. The advantage is that the prose will be interjected with links to orchestral cues and themes that I feel would enhance the reading experience. http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beginning, quite like and unlike so many others.

**THE WEAVING OF THE WORLD**

The Ages weave and the Songs change with them. Deeds becomes legends, legends become myths, and myths are forgotten. Every action is a ripple in the water, and the ripples transform the Ages around them. In one the Dragon is killed, in another the Dragon is triumphant. The Silver Queen becomes entangled in a Knot, in another she is harbored in a frozen realm, and in some she knows what it means to be the Dragon’s sister. The Black Prince is an adventurer in one telling, in another he is exiled to Always Winter, in some he is a Prince in name and function. Some weavings say the Raven is broken, or maybe that the Raven is strong, and in a rare few the Raven is a king. The details transform, names and circumstance may change, but the Songs endure. A thousand ripples, a thousand tellings, each a part of the Weavings of the Ages.

In one telling, a beginning like so many others, and quite unlike so many others, the Stag marched on the Dragon. He marched for love, he marched for vengeance, but mostly he marched for his vanity. The Stag found the Dragon on the river, black steel met maul, and the dragon kissed sword found the Stag’s heart. And so all the creatures of the world bowed before the Dragon, as it was always meant to be.

Ripples in the pool, changes in the weaving, but the Song endures.

 

**THE PRINCE WITH DARK HAIR**

People called it Maegor’s Holdfast, but Jonaehrys called it home. He grew in these halls, although he was not born in it. Father said Mother brought him into this world much further south, in a place called Dorne. He was nine years old, and he knew almost all of the twists and turns the Holdfast could take. The halls were dark, night had fallen on King’s Landing, and Jon was walking barefoot through the halls. Normally he would be asleep, but he was stirred awake by another of his dreams.

_Mother was in a red bed. I could smell flowers._

He woke Daenerys, although not by choice. She heard him as he rustled in his bed. She was his aunt, but a year younger than him. “Another dream?” she asked as she scratched at her purple eyes. Jon didn’t say anything to her. “You should talk to my brother. He is your father Jon.” Her eyes were always so focused when they talked of his dreams, as rare as they came. Sometimes all he could focus on was just how pretty her white hair was. He was the only one without the silver hair.

“Come with me then,” he said with half a yawn. “It would be easier if you were with me.”

“To split the Queen’s wrath?” With a nod he confirmed her question. And they walked down the halls. The Holdfast was his home, but it looked transformed in the darkness. Shadows loomed everywhere, and the empty armor that galleried the halls seemed to glare on the small prince.

“What are you two doing at this hour?” They turned and saw Viserys, his Uncle. He was six and ten, and Jon could not recall a single time when Viserys did not look crossed with him.

“We wanted to speak with brother,” Dany said.

Viserys rubbed at his forehead. “It is far too late for that. Young Princesses need to sleep, Dany.”

“It’s important Vis. Jon had another of his dreams.”

“Rhaegar did say for Jon to see him when he had those dreams.” Irritation was gnawing at his words. “But not at times like this. Rhaegar is in congress and-“

Viserys was interrupted by the opening of a wide wooden door, and outstepped Ser Arthur Dayne. He had pale hair, almost as pale as Dany’s and Viserys’, but everyone said that he was not a Targaryen. “Viserys, what are the children doing up?”

“Jon had another of his dreams,” Dany answered before anyone else could speak. “He should speak with his father.”

“Most times I would, Princess, but-“

“Who is it, Arthur? Is it Jon?” He knew that voice. It was a voice that he loved and dreaded all at once. “Bring in my son. And I know Daenerys is with him as well. Those two are never far apart.”

“Husband,” came the voice of Queen Cersei, “we still need to resolve the Greyjoy-“

“I will speak with my son and sister.”

The knight smiled. “Well you heard him. In you go.” Ser Arthur Dayne opened the doors wider. It was a small chamber, with a circular table in the center. Seated around it was Queen Cersei, Father’s third wife. Her hair was gold, but their firstborn son Joferion had hair as pale as his father. To her left was Jon Connington, the man that people called the Hand of the King. His hair was as bright as a torch, minus some gray spots. And in-between them was Father.

“Come here Jon.” Father motioned forward.

“It is too late for children to be up,” the Queen said. She looked at Jon, and there was an irritation in her eyes that were reserved only for him and Dany. “And they certainly shouldn’t be interrupting matters of state.”

“The King alone decides what interrupts matters of state,” Father said. Jon approached Father, who was dressed in a simple robe. The dark colors were in contrast with his Queen’s garments, who were a dazzling red and gold. “You had another of the dreams?” Jon nodded. He did his best not to look into the Queen’s eyes, but he could feel her stare digging into his back. “Speak to me of it.”

“I was like a wind, being everywhere at once.” As he spoke he felt foolish. The words didn’t make sense. “I saw Mother. I think it was Mother. Her hair was dark as night and she was beautiful.” Father nodded as he spoke, but Jon felt he looked sad. “She was lying in bed and it was as red as-“

“That’s enough Jon.” He looked to the Jon with red hair and to Queen Cersei. “The children stay. Let’s continue where we left off.”

“A council is no place for children!” The Queen looked at Jon with irritation.

“I alone decide that, darling wife. Jon is almost ten years old, and my sister is not far behind him. He will not be King, but he will rule land in his own time. It is time he begins to learn what it means to be the blood of the Dragon.” Father placed both of his arms on Jon’s shoulders. Although he knew the Queen wanted Jon to be as far away as possible, he felt safer with Father here. “You too Daenerys. Come here,” he said.

“Then let’s resume,” spoke Jon Connington, although even Jon could tell the older man had some discomfort in his voice. “Rhaegar, for once I have to agree with the Queen. You must not lead the assault on Pyke.”

Pyke. Jon knew the name. It was far to the north, not even connected to Westeros. Not by land. It was the home of the Greyjoys. Their insignia was something monstrous, with many arms that stretched across their banners. He remembered when he first saw it, and when he was told they were reavers and raiders, he knew it to be truth.

“You are a King, husband. Act the part. There are countless Lords who would gladly lead the charge. I would not see my King rot in the salt and the sea.”

“Your concern is touching,” Father lied, “but the King you would have me act is not the one I was meant to be.”

“That was for our Father,” Viserys spoke out. His arms were crossed against his chest. “He is the one who would send greater men than him to do his work. And we all knew what type of King he was.”

“Rushing needlessly into danger is another madness I would prefer _this_ king to not be associated with,” spoke Lord Connington. Many said the Hand was Father’s friend, but even Jon could see the frustration on Father’s face. He looked at Dany, and he could just imagine what she’d say. _Speak up. You are a dragon after all._

He wondered what he should say. What would Father say? “Father,” he began, not really knowing where to go. Jon Connington looked to him. The Queen looked at him. Dany and Viserys were looking at him.

Father was looking at him.

“Father,” he began again, “you are the Dragon. Aegon didn’t send his wives to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. He was with them. I heard people say…that…”

“What did you hear them say?”

“That the rebels won you your throne. That you were weak after the Rebellion. Prove them wrong. You should go deal with the Greyjoys.”

Father smiled, and Jon felt him tighten his grip on Jon’s shoulders. “My son is not even ten years, and he has more wisdom than either of you.”

“He is a child, ignorant to the ways of the world.”

“Then, My Lady, perhaps you should do with being a little bit less enlightened. My decision is made. I will summon the Kingdoms and remind a certain Lord of Pyke that there is only one King in Westeros.” The Queen was clutching her fist so tightly Jon imagined if her nails would rip through her hand. “Brother, put Jon and Dany to bed.”

They did as Father bade them, and Viserys led them back to their rooms. Before he went back to bed Viserys called out to him. “Jonaehrys. You were more Dragon than Wolf tonight.” And he left without another word.

He climbed into his bed, Dany across the room from him. Father thought her presence would keep the dreams at bay, but she had only encouraged them. “Our family was saved by a dreamer,” she told him once. He wished another dream wouldn’t come to him that night. He wished Father would come home soon, so that he and Dany wouldn’t be alone with the Queen for long.

One wish came true, the other was ignored.

Father would be gone for a year, and he took with him a great army. Viserys left, as was the entirety of the Kings Guard, save for Ser Jamie Lannister. “A man with a golden hand has no place on the battlefield,” spoke Ser Lewyn Martell when he did not know Dany was within earshot.

“They hate him,” she told Jon under the lemon tree. “Almost as much as they hate my Father.”

The Mad King. They say he burned people alive, that at his command Jon’s grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, was fed to the flames and his uncle Brandon was strangled. That he had more to do with the cause of the war than even Father and Mother. And Ser Jamie did more to end the war by killing the King. A King he had sworn to protect.

“Does my Father not trust him?” Dany shrugged. “Why would he keep Jamie on the Kingsguard? Why not just send him to the Wall?” The Wall was a place for murderers and rapists, far away from King’s Landing. It bordered on the realm of the Wildlings, who were cannibals that worshipped strange gods. They protected the realm from the Wildlings, a final redemption for their crimes. Ser Jamie deserved to be there, not to be at Father’s side.

“Pycelle says the Wall is no place for Ser Jamie. But everyone knows that Pycelle is only here because of the Queen. Ser Jamie is the same.”

“I wish the Queen would go to the wall. Maybe then Jamie would follow.” Dany laughed at that. It didn’t take much for Jon to make her smile.

“I bet you’d do well on the Wall Jon. Your wolf blood would keep you warm. You remember that book we found in the library?”

He remembered. It was a tome full of stories of the North. Of the Starks, his other family that was far away from King’s Landing. “It almost crushed you when you tried to grab it off from the shelf.”

“It did _not_ ,” she slapped at his arm. “You remember what the stories said about the Starks?”

“The book was practically all about the Starks.” And then she rattled off all the facts she could remember from the tome. How Winterfell was always warm, for it was built atop hot springs, the rivalry between the Starks and the Boltons, of all the invasions from the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall.

“You don’t need to be afraid of the Queen, Jon. You are Stark and Targaryen both. You have twice as much Old Blood as anyone else. Rhaegar loved your Mother, which is more than could be said of anyone else in our family.”

_And my Father’s love almost destroyed our family._

“But she is the Queen. I can’t face her alone.”

“Then you never will,” she said as she held onto his hand. “We’ll always have each other. Right, Jon?”

Jon nodded. “You and me Dany.” He felt the warm summer wind blow at his hair. He didn’t know what a vow was supposed to sound like, but he felt like he had said something sacred with Dany under that lemon tree.

Dany grinned, more from mischief than from joy. “I’m hungry. Let’s go through the kitchens and get something.” And before he could protest Dany pulled him from the gardens.

Two months after that Father would return victorious. The campaign against the Greyjoys were a tremendous success. The corpse of Balon Greyjoy would remind the Iron Islanders that no son of the Kraken would ever wear the Driftwood Crown. The last surviving male son of Balon’s was given to the Starks as a ward, to safeguard the realm from any other rebellion.

Father returned home a hero. He had led the procession, his black armor wrapped in a crimson red cloak. He rode atop a white destrier that was draped in the Targaryen colors. People said he was a hero, the Dragon, and when he and Dany saw him then Jon finally began to understand why. He appeared something out of legends.

“Is that Father?” asked Joferion. But before Jon could answer the Queen pulled him away.

“Hail to the King!” one of the knights roared out. “Hail to the Dragon!” Now the crowd was in unison, and it seemed as if the Red Keep was shaking. “Rhaegar! Rhaegar! RHAEGAR!” The city bellowed and cheered and roared for their king.

Father climbed the steps of the Red Keep. The Kingsguard followed behind him. His armor glowed. Jon could see no dent, no scratch or cuts, no signs of battle. Jon imagined his Father charging into battle on his horse. No arrow would touch him, not steel could come close. He would roar out a battle-cry, and the Kingdoms would follow. He would be the first to enter, _Dark Sister_ soaked in salt and blood, and he would be the last to leave.

Jon imagined his Uncle Stark was behind him, all grievances forgotten in the heart of battle. In his hands would be the massive blade _Ice,_ forged from the same Valyrian steel as Dark Sister. Valyrian blades that signified the north and the south, fighting together to restore the realm. In battle, peace between the North and the South. Peace between his families.

Father and Cersei embraced, although Jon did not think there was any love between them. “Welcome home husband,” Cersei said. Her words were as dry as the sands of Dragonstone.

Father turned towards him and Dany. “And you have grown. As well as Jof! I spent a year from you, and already I fear I have missed so much in the lives of those dearest to me.”

“Then perhaps we should go inside,” the Queen said as she eyed the crowd. “So that the King may spend time with his family without the…adorations of the people.” The cheers almost drowned out Cersei entirely.

“I agree with my wife,” Father said, speaking louder to make sure he could be heard. “Let’s retreat into the Keep.” A feast was waiting for them, as was the honor Father was due after a successful campaign. It was not Jon’s first feast. He had been to several before. Father said his first was just when he was a few years old, when Joferion was born. Jon didn’t remember anything from that one of course – he was still little better than a wailing babe. But he remembered this one fondly. The Queen was more focused on her husband than she was shooting Dany and Jon any vengeful glares. And he got to taste wine for the first time.

“Here,” Father said as he poured a slither of the Dornish Red into his goblet. “A small taste. A prince needs to develop a love for wine. He’ll be drinking plenty of it.”

“For pleasure?”

“Maybe. But mostly because it is expected.” He drank it one gulp. That’s not saying much, considering how little Father had poured for him. It was spicy, the wine flaring down his tongue and gullet. “You handled that well enough.”

“It was hot. Is every wine hot like this?”

“No,” Father said lightly. “Unless you are a Dornishman, and then everything you consume is hot and spicy.

“I would like to go there someday. You said I was born in Dorne.”

“Yes you were.” Father had a sad smile on his face. “In a small tower that I call the Tower of Joy. You came into this world there, Jon. I would like you to visit that place someday.”

He didn’t know if it was the wine, or if this was the closest Jon had ever gotten Father to speaking of Mother, but he felt very brave then. “Father, I want to visit Winterfell. Dany and Viserys say I am dragon and wolf both. But I have never learned what it means to be a Stark. I want to visit my Uncle and Aunt.”

Father looked at him for a moment, and Jon felt that he became very sad. He laid a hand on Jon’s cheek. “Speak to me tomorrow. I will send for you.” And then he turned away from Jon.

After the festivities had died down, Jon and Dany were being escorted down the Holdfast. The Queen had divided Jon and Dany almost the moment that Father had left to siege Pyke. “A prince and princess have no place sharing an apartment,” she had said. But they had found themselves in the hall and Ser Barristan Selmy afforded them a moment. “Be quick. I would hate to see any of the Queen’s eyes see you where you shouldn’t be

Dany had nodded her agreement. She took Jon’s hands into her own. “I saw you talking with your father. What did he say?”

“He said he wanted me to visit Dorne someday. To see where I was born. And I asked him if I could visit Winterfell.”

“And?” Her voice was trailing off, and her violet eyes shone into his own.

“He asked to talk to him tomorrow.” Jon smiled. “I think he will visit and take me with him. My uncle helped him with the siege of Pyke. Maybe he will honor Father and have a celebration?”

“Oh Jon, yes.” She wrapped herself around him. “Maybe he will even take a tour of all the Kingdoms, and have you come. I know Aegon and Rhaenys will be finishing their tour in a few months – well, except for the Isles, I guess. Just promise me you’ll ask my brother to take me with you.”

“I will,” he said. “You wouldn’t even need to ask Dany.”

Ser Barristan cough. “Princess, we should be going. But if my words have any worth-“

“They do Ser Barristan!” spoke Jon. “No knight has more songs than you, Ser.”

“Then listen to my words, Prince, instead of speaking. A good lesson for any Prince.” Jon nodded. “I am sure the King would honor such a request. The King always regretted he never had such a tour in his youth. I’m sure he would honor you with it.”

“Thank you Ser,” Dany said. “Bring me to my bed now, before the Queen finds a reason to yell at either of us.”

“Won’t take much for that,” Ser Barristan smiled. “Goodnight, Prince Jon.”

It was a sound sleep, and he did not find himself burdened with any of his dragon dreams. He did find himself stirred awake with a rapping on a window in his chambers. As he rubbed the dreariness from his eyes, he saw a dark raven tapping on the glass. It tapped, louder and faster. He could hardly see it in the night. Jon made his way over to the window. The raven tapped faster then. He unhooked the latch and the bird hopped in.

“Broken” it rasped. Jon wondered who would have taught the raven that command. “Broken” it said again, peering at Jon. “Broken?” it said a third time, but Jon felt it was more a question that time. It tilted its head and then flew off, away into the night.

 _There is nothing broken here_. He gripped the edge of the window as he tried to see where the raven flew off. But he couldn’t see a thing. The raven melted into the darkness, and soon the flapping of its wings became a distant memory. He climbed back into bed, and with some effort, found sleep overcame him.

Just as the sun was rising Jon heard another knocking, but this time on his chamber door. “Are you awake, Prince?” asked the hard voice of Ser Oswell Whent.

“I am! Come in ser.” Oswell Whent was a hard looking man, with his long dark hair going well past his ears. His face was sharp looking, and Jon thought his nose looked like a beak of sorts. “Your Father the King would break fast with you, Prince Jon.”

“With me?” Father never broke fast with Jon, and Dany was little better. It was always his brother and sister, Aegon and Rhaenys, that were graced by Father in the morning. When he had the time for the luxury.

“Wonders never cease,” the knight said. “I would come quickly, before your father changes his mind.” He said it with jest, but Jon saw no humor in it. Ser Oswell led Jon down the halls of the Holdfast to Father’s chambers. He opened the wide oak doors and heard Father usher him in.

“Thank you Ser Oswell, that would be all. Come in Jon.” Jon looked up briefly at the knight, who simply nodded. The door closed behind him.

Father’s chambers were large enough to hold a bed wide enough for two, as well as a double set of hearths. The bed was still unkempt, although a few servants were at work to remedy that. The balcony door was wide open, and Jon felt the cool morning air. The pale drapes were swayed by the gentle breeze.

“Come sit Jon.” Father rasped his knuckles against the oaken table. There were baked honeycakes, fingerfish that were crisped in breadcrumbs, several thick strips of bacon, as well as some autumn pears.

“Do you always eat so much, Father?” Jon asked as he found his place across from him.

“Do I always break the fast with my son?” Jon shook his head as he filled his plate. “Don’t forget the milk. And try the honey with it. It’s quite good.” Father lifted a fish and ripped through it. “I understand that you and Dany have been going through the library while I was…away.”

Jon nodded. “Dany wanted me to find books. She loves to read, but she always wants to do it with me.”

“That’s good.” Father washed the fish away with some milk. “I heard that Dany was almost crushed when she tried to reach too high.”

“How did you know?” But then Jon knew the answer as soon as he asked. The Master of Whispers always knows everything. Of course Varys would have said something to Father. “She would deny it.”

“She is eager to learn. Does she usually drag you to your lessons with Maester Pycelle?”

Jon shrugged. “Sometimes.” Father stared at him. “Most of the time. I’d rather be practicing swords with Aegon. He’s really good.”

“He has a good year on you. You know, I was the opposite of you.” Jon gave Father a quizzical look. “I mean, I always preferred books to swords. I loved to grab something from the library and read by the hearth.”

“But Father, you are the Dragon. A swordsman of…renown!”

“Well, it took a book for me to realize that a Prince must sometimes do things he would rather not do. The fact I was skilled at swordplay made it easier.”

“What was the book? Must have been really interesting.”

Father nodded. “Indeed it was, although I can’t remember where I could find it for you.” Father looked past Jon, lost in thought. “Viserys learned the importance of duty, about doing what you have to do. I only wished he could have learned it from a book, instead of through losing my mother and father.”

“Viserys never seems pleased with me.” Jon chewed on a honeycake. “The only time he says anything good is usually when it involves Dany.”

“He may not say it, but Viserys loves you Jon. As much as the rest of our family. But you know the burden that is placed on you, and Viserys won’t let you forget it. He could be warmer about it, but he wants you to rise up and meet it.”

Jon pondered as he chewed. Father looked awkward in the silence. “Father, you never want to talk about Mother. About my family. The Starks, I mean.”

The King nodded. “Connington call me quite charismatic, but that is one subject where words fail me. I failed you in that regard Jon.”

“Father!” Jon spoke quickly, without even meaning to. “You have never failed me. Never.” He smiled, as wide and warm of a smile as Jon had ever seen from him. It warmed Jon’s heart.

“They say that there is more Targaryen than Stark in you Jon, but I think you just proved them wrong. I will fix this wrong. Jon, I am sending you North.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh Father, thank you! Please, can Dany-can Daenerys come? She wanted to see the North almost as bad as I do. She is always nagging me to get any book about the Starks, or Winterfell. Even about the Others-“

“Jon.” Father’s voice became hard, and Jon became silent. “I made a promise, and I must keep to it. I spoke with your Lord Uncle Eddard Stark before we sailed for Pyke. He agreed to take you on as a ward of Winterfell, under his protection. Ten years, so that you may learn of your Mother’s home.”

Jon’s appetite vanished.

 

**THE STORMBORN**

“Father is sending me to ward at Winterfell. He said I will be gone for ten years.”

She was waiting for him outside of the royal apartments. Dany had a feeling that Rhaegar would summon Jon to break fast with him. Ser Oswell was escorting him, and she had dashed happily to him. “What did my brother say?” she had asked with excitement.

So Jon told her, regret etched in his voice. And when he was done Dany looked up at Ser Oswell and demanded from him her brother’s location.

“If I say, you will do something very stupid, Princess.”

“Where is Rhaegar?” she said, with a harder tone. And with a sigh Ser Oswell said he was with the Small Council. And she raced past him, past Jon, away from both of their protests, her name echoing down the hall she ran down. Her silver hair became unbound with the speed she ran. She felt the tears swelling in her eyes. _Rhaegar betrayed us. He betrayed Jon. He betrayed me._

The thick doors to the council was firmly shut, and she could hear fragments of their words. So she leaned against the wall and waited. Time passed and eventually she slumped to the ground, her hands wrapped around her knees. And before she could fall into a daze the heavy doors opened wide, and the footsteps of the lords brought her back into the waking world. Out stepped Rhaegar, the last to leave the Council.

“Daenerys,” he said with concern, “what is it?” She only looked at him, her purple eyes narrow and focused on his. Rhaegar sighed. “My Lords, spare me a moment.”

“Of course Your Grace,” spoke Varys. “We wait upon your leisure.” Rhaegar nodded and motioned for Dany to follow him into the council room. He sat at the end of the long table, and tapped on a nearby chair for her to sit. She did, and he looked at her.

“I did it for Jon,” he said. “He deserves to know the rest of his family.”

“But ten years! They don’t need to take him for ten years. Just make it one, brother. Please. You’re the king, you can do whatever you want.” She felt the tears flowing down her cheek. Rhaegar took a steady hand and wiped them away. He laid a delicate hand on her.

“No, not in this. He is my son. But he is also his mother’s son, and the nephew of the Starks. No House is more misunderstood.”

“But why ten years? Gone for so long? We were supposed to go there together. I want to know the North too! I’m always the one getting him to get books from the library.”

Rhaegar held her in his hands. “Dany, what are our words?”

She squeezed her eyes, hoping the tears would dry. “Fire and blood.”

“And what are we?”

“We are the blood of the dragon.” And she looked into him then.

“And that means we must do what we must, at all times. I want Jon to be here forever. I want Jon to have peace and happiness, as I knew it when I held his mother in my arms. But the Starks have the right to see their nephew, to know and understand him as you know and understand him. And he needs to know the lands of his mother. He deserves that much. I need to give him that.”

“It isn’t fair though. He’s my friend. I love him.”

Rhaegar kissed her the top of forehead. “I never promised fairness, only what we deserve. But I promise you Daenerys, you and Jon are not alone in this. I am sending Joferion away to ward at Casterly Rock within the year. I already see the influence my wife’s coddling has on him, and I will rip out that weed, root and stem. Tywin Lannister is the best tool to do that with. He is a hard man, but a loyal one. He will make Joferion into a Prince worthy of the Targaryen name.

“Sister, this is not the end. This is no exile. We can still visit him, circumstances permitting, and you can send as many letters as ravens we can spare.”

“There won’t be enough birds in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaegar laughed softly. “I imagine not. Jon will not be leaving for another month. Spend it well. Give him memories that will keep him warm on his journey north. Find him under the lemon tree. I gave you and him leave from the Grand Maester’s lessons for the day.”

She walked out at first, but once she was clear out of the hall she ran again. She ran until she was in the gardens and she could see the black tufts of Jon’s hair below the lemon tree. _Our lemon tree. It was always our meeting place._ He was stretched beneath the canopies, his head resting against the tree.

She sat beside him. They didn’t say anything at first. “Father said it would go by quickly. Ten years isn’t too long a time.”

“I wouldn’t do well there anyway,” she lied. “Too cold for me. I’m all dragons. I don’t know any dragons that breathed ice.”

Jon looked at her. “You’d do fine.”

Dany smiled. “You’ll do better. I’m going to miss you.”

Jon’s fingers touched hers. “Miss me? No you won’t. We promised we’ll always have each other. I’ll send so many ravens from Winterfell-“

“That there won’t be any ravens left.” Dany laughed. “I told Rhaegar the same thing. Rhaegar said we could visit, when he can manage it.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go at all. To leave Father and you behind. I’ll miss these gardens.”

“But Winterfell has a garden. A _glass_ garden. And there is a big port, so you can find even more exotic things than what we have here in King’s Landing. And you’ll be away from the Queen.”

“But you’ll be stuck here _with_ the Queen.”

She shrugged. “I’ll be fine. I’m all dragon, remember?”

Jon smiled. “Have you broken fast yet?” She shook her head. “Let’s go take something from the kitchens.” He raised her up.

“I’m the one that’s supposed to come up with the plans.”

“Well, times change. I guess. Come on, last one there needs to distract Gurtherm from the pots!”

 

**THE WARDEN OF THE NORTH**

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, leaned against the weirwood tree. It was an hour past since Luwin came to him, with the letter bearing the dragon seal of Targaryen. _I shall honor my promise. A month from now my son shall leave the south and journey northwards._ The writing was elegant, but the words were coarse and hastily written. How will he arrive? Who will be his escorts? Are they to meet at a halfway point? Should he entrust Rodrik with the task?

Does Jon even want to come?

_Damn you, Rhaegar. I bent my knee for him, helped reclaim his throne and sailed on Pyke for him. And he gives me scraps on the one thing of value he owns._

He could not help but reread the words. _I shall honor my promise_. Rhaegar was there when Lyanna died, but if Robert was victorious than Ned would have been the one to hold Lyanna as she died. He would have been the one to hold to her promise, to keep his word. _I would have protected him for a thousand years for you, Lya._

Now after ten years the dragon king was sending his son north. Jonaehrys was his name, but Ned would have named him Jonnel. If Robert was victorious, Eddard would have made his way south to the Tower. The Tower of Joy Rhaegar called it, but he would have called it the Ruins of Joy after he pulled it apart brick by brick. Jon would be a stranger, even though he was family. _My sister’s son. The same sister that would beat me with sticks as we laughed in the yard. She loved winter roses. Her son is coming. Jon is coming home._

It was home, but it was the home of the Starks. It was the home of the First Men, of the Old Ways, of men held by honor rather than by vows and chivalry. Of damp summers and colder winters. But it wasn’t Jon’s home. He was born in summer, and he grew up in a hot and warm place. A realm where words meant more than deeds, of gods brought forth by invaders. Winterfell wasn’t Jon’s home.

But by the Old Gods, Ned would make it so.

He heard soft steps pressing on brittle leaves. He looked up from the letter and saw Catelyn Stark, Cat, his wife and love, approach. Her Tully hair was once a vibrant red, but the years have edged it to a duller shade. She was still the most radiant sight to him in all the Kingdoms. With wariness she approached the weirwood. She never felt comfort in the Godswood, even though she bore four northern children. And one that was lost before he could even draw a first breath. _We would have named him Rickon_.

“Cat,” he called out to her, welcoming her with a pat on the grass besides him. She went closer to him, but still out of reach. Out of reach of the weirwood. _She would always be a child of the Seven. Her greatest comfort would always be in the Sept I built her._

“That is the seal of the dragon,” she said. She looked at the broken wax seal that laid at Ned’s feet. “How soon?” Ned had told her of his agreement with Rhaeger almost a month ago, as soon as he had returned from Pyke. _I will give you my son for ten years, Rhaegar had said over a fire. Ten years for the brother of his mother to mold him and teach him._

“He leaves in a month. The King,” and he says the title with some venom, “gives us no other details. I don’t know if he will come by ship, or by carriage, on horse, or even if he will arrive naked. No word at all would be better than this.”

“Ned, that is not true. We know he will be here in two months time. The King would not send one of his sons without the protection of a kingsguard, so we can expect to be housing at least two. And we can send word to Benjen at White Harbor, to expect him.”

“You so confident he will travel by ship?”

“I have no doubt. It is much safer than to travel on land, and quicker.” She came closer. Ned could not think of the last time she came so close to him that she could touch the weirwood. He felt her fingers on his shoulders. “Ned, you are not so easily lost. He is your nephew. He is kin. He is coming home.”

“Ten years he has been taken from us.” By his father.

“And ten years have been given to us. I do not know what he must think of us, what he has been told, but-“

“We will show him who we are. What the North is. And as much as I can, who his mother was.”

Cat nodded. Ned took her hand into his own and rubbed her palm. He loved the feeling of her skin against his own. “A month and a half. Maybe two. I wish it was tomorrow. I wish it was yesterday. I wish he came here swaddled in cloth and under my arm.”

“I know, my love.”

“I wish Robert had lived. Stannis is across the Sea still fighting for him. They say that he is the Commander of the Golden Company.”

“The Company of Bittersteel,” Cat added.

“They say that he has one of Robert’s bastards. He is still fighting, while I have bent the knee. I played weak for a King that held my nephew hostage.”

“Don’t speak like that Ned. You did what you had to do. You were routed by Rhaegar. All of the rebellion was. He could have taken your heads, instead of your allegiances.”

“Instead he took our pride.”

“He gave you your life Ned. He gave you back to me. He gave you Bran and the girls. He gave you Winterfell. And now he is giving you Jon.”

Ned looked into her. The bitterness and regret washed away. And in the eyes of his wife, he found peace. He remembered the joys of his children, the pride in his sons, the warmth of his twin girls. He imagined the day of when Jon would return to the North.

And he wished that day was now.

 

**THE KRAKEN’S SON**

Theon held his bow steady, his eye on the target. Then he loosed the arrow and it hit the target perfectly in the inner circle. He was two and ten, and was the oldest boy in the training yard. The Lord’s oldest, Robb, looked on, his blue eyes focused on Theon. He liked Robb – the Northboy was as cheerful as his hair was red. He reminded Theon of Asha, who always rubbed Theon’s hair. But she was left behind on Pyke with Uncle Victarion.

“Well shot Greyjoy” cheered Rodrik Cassel. He was the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. The hair that dangled from the sides of his face were so long and thick the man tied it beneath his chin into a knot. Theon thought that looked damn stupid. He was smart enough to keep that thought to himself. “I suppose you Pykeman are worth for more than just rebellions after all.”

_Father was fighting for the freedom of the Iron Islands. But now Father is dead. Rodrik and Maron rot in the sea, and Uncle Victarion is king._

“Ser Rodrick,” the Lord of Winterfell called out from above. He and his Lady Wife were watching the archery lesson from a balcony. “The boy had a good aim. Don’t muddle it with bitter truths.” Theon smiled at that. He never remembered his Father giving him any compliments. He always looked displeased. ‘That all the boy can do?’ Father would say.

But Father is a corpse now. _And I can do a great deal more than what a corpse can._

“My apologies, My Lord.” Rodrick turned towards Theon again. “You have good aim lad. Don’t remember all of you Pykers being so true with a bow when the Kingdoms gave you a visit.”

“Most prefer to take the Iron Price with steel and hatchets. But I was always gifted with the bow. My Uncle Aeron always said so.” He loved Uncle Aeron, almost as much as Asha. Uncle Aeron was always drunk, made pissing contests and often won, and he would always give Theon a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Uncle Aeron believed in him. But now he was a prisoner at Casterly Rock, wherever that was. _Maybe I could save him when I am grown._

“Can I try?” jumped up Bran Stark. The boy was the youngest of the Stark children. He had dark hair, although nowhere as dark as his Lord Father’s. He barely went up to Theon’s waist, and Theon wasn’t particularly tall for his age.

“No way Bran! You’ll just hurt yourself. Don’t be stupid.” Arya Stark was seven years old, and her long face was coated in freckles. Some mean boys would call her “Arya Horseface” before Robb would beat them with sticks. But that didn’t stop her sister Sansa from calling her the same, and Robb would never hit her.

“I’m not stupid! You’re just a stupid girl!”

“Enough!” Lord Stark’s voice was loud and firm, and ended the quarrel instantly. “You are Starks both of you, and I won’t see you mocking each other like this. That said, Arya is right Bran. You are much too young to curve a bow. In a year or two you’ll have the height to start practicing.” Bran folded his arms.

Maester Luwin approached, the clanking of the chains betraying his presence. “You will nock and loose arrows in good time, Bran. But Theon is a capable marksman. The more you watch, the more you will learn.” Theon had always felt comfortable around the Maester. When he first arrived everyone kept a safe distance, judging him and trying to understand him. The old man immediately started asking him questions. ‘What do you know? What are the colors of Glover, Flint or Mormont?’ The voice of the Maester was one Theon knew he could find some comfort in. Theon could hear Sansa talk of ‘songs’ and in some of them there would be a wise and sage old man. Maester Luwin would be what he imagined all those wizened men would look like.

“Where is Sansa?” Theon heard Lady Catelyn ask. Almost as if on cue, the red haired daughter of Winterfell strolled across the yard. “Sansa where have you been? Arya has been here for over an hour. Where did you go after your lessons with Septa Mordane?”

“They _just_ finished,” Sansa said. “Arya slipped out half way through.”

“Arya Stark!” Lady Catelyn spoke with a firm tone. Theon saw Robb smirked at the sight of his sister getting in trouble _again_. It almost seemed like a daily occurrence for one of the Stark children to draw their mother’s ire. So far Theon managed to avoid the scolding of Lady Stark, but only because he kept his head down as much as possible. “You told me that you finished lessons already! I will not suffer a noble daughter of mine to lie in my own-“

Whatever punishment Lady Stark was about to dish out, it was interrupted by the arrival of a rider speeding the open gates of Winterfell. The man was dressed in what Theon had learned the day before were the colors of House Manderly. A white merman on a teal field. The Manderlys ruled from White Harbor, the second city in the North aside from Winterfell, and commanded the Northern armada.

“A rider from White Harbor,” Theon heard Robb whisper.

“Jonaehrys,” the Maester spoke. He turned towards Theon. “The King’s son,” as if Theon needed any further clarification. “Their cousin.” That he didn’t know.

“Hail,” spoke the Manderly rider, “from White Harbor and House Manderly, as well as Benjen Stark and the Prince of the Realm.”

“Do you come from their party?” Lord Eddard said, in a quick and rushed way that Theon had never heard before. The Lord came down the steps.

“I do My Lord. Your beloved brother had me rush out a day early, to announce his arrival. They should be here by nightfall, weather permitting.”

“Here by nightfall,” Lord Stark mirrored the words. His gray eyes were wide and agape. “I was not expecting him so soon.” He turned towards his wife. “Cat we need to prepare quickly!”

“Robb, Bran, girls, I want you all dressed in the hour!” Lady Stark was already halfway down the steps. “When your princely cousin arrives, he will see you all as the noble children of the north. Even you Arya, I will hear no arguments!”

“But mother! The hem of the dresses are always so itchy!”

“Only because you always leave your hair in such a horrid state.” Sansa was pulling at her twin’s hand. “Septa Mordane and I will help you. Because we both know you need it.”

“Come on Bran,” Robb was waving to his brother. “We need to get your cloak and tunic.”

“Ser Rodrick!” Lord Stark called out. “I want a van assembled to meet my brother and nephew. They will get all the courtesies deserved to them.”

The Master-at-Arms gave a curt nod. “Of course My Lord. I know just the riders to get the job done.”

Theon felt a pull on his arm. “Come Theon,” the Maester said. “Do you have any Greyjoy colors? A shirt with the face of the kraken, some brooch, anything?”

“I think so,” Theon said, the chaos of the moment throwing him off balance. As he turned he saw Lord and Lady Stark staring into each other, a smile on their face. The Lord had his arms squeezing his wife’s hands. He kissed her while he laughed. _I never saw Father look at Mother like that_.

“Well if you don’t we’ll find you a wolf cloak to wear. Come Theon, normally I am patient with you, but not today. Let’s go Greyjoy. Quickly. Don’t drag your feet. Drop the _bow!_ ”

 

**THE WIFE OF WINTERFELL**

Rodrick had ridden out with a band of men two hours past. Cat had no doubt it would be a smooth procession, but she couldn’t help the knot in her stomach. She watched as her husband twirled his thumbs around each other. He was bent over a large and wide crate.

“Rodrick is a capable man.”

“I know.”

“Benjen wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

“I know.”

“He is coming home, Ned.”

He looked at her. “I know.” He sighed. “I had more courage the day before the Trident. What does he think of us? What does he think of me? Will he see an Uncle, or the man that wanted to murder his Father?”

She approached him and laid her hand on the fur of his cloak. “He will see Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, a loving father to four children. He will see a man who respects him, who loved his mother, and welcomes a prince into his home with open arms.” Ned didn’t say anything at first. Then he took her hand and kissed it.

Ned was about to speak, but then there was the blowing of a horn. He got up at once. “Where are the children?”

“To no good, no doubt,” she breathed. She saw Theon rushing from out a door, a fur cape dragging behind him. He arrived with heavy breathing. “How is it that your ward arrives sooner to welcome your nephew than one of your children? Well done Theon.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” the boy said between breaths. Theon had a kraken brooch pinned to the corner of his tunic, but it became loose and slanted.

“Come here child,” she commanded. He did so and she straightened the Greyjoy insignia.

Robb and Bran arrived next, and they looked as well and gallant as she would want. Their clothes were well pressed and neat, and their wolf capes were well clasped. Sansa and Arya followed, and she swelled with pride at the sight of her twins.  Sansa looked lovely in a blue dress trimmed with fox fur, and she and Septa Mordane must have worked a miracle because Arya’s hair was shining and braided. She couldn’t see one straw of hay trapped in her hair.

The children coordinated themselves into a line, with a little direction from Cat. Maester Luwin stood behind Bran and Theon. Just as they got into position the banners of Manderly and Targaryen entered the yard. The dragon banner fluttered in the wind. Benjen came next, his rough face free of a beard and his massive locks flowing behind him. She saw Ser Barristan Selmy, armored in the white steel of the Kingsguard. He had wisps of white hair on the top of his head, and his beard was small and hugged his face.

And then there was Jonaehrys. Jon. _My nephew. Gods, he looks more like Ned than all of his children_. His hair was as dark as night, his eyes a light gray. He was dressed in a dark tunic, and a crimson cape was wrapped around his shoulders. He wore his father’s colors well. He was followed by ten armored riders, all dressed in the scaled armor of House Targaryen. A well-armed, albeit small, protective envoy. Would move quickly across the North, which suited Cat just fine, although she imagined they suffered from the cold of their armor. There is a reason Northmen preferred padded leather over steel. From behind them she could see Rodrick’s band, who did their duty and escorted Prince Jon to Winterfell.

The Prince dismounted from his horse, and the rest followed. A chorus of hard boots pounding on the snow. Jon side by side by Benjen, and Jon looked up briefly at his Uncle. Benjen smiled down at the boy and whispered something. _He is on good terms with a Stark already. Good. Praise the Gods, that is good._ Jon approached.

“Welcome, Prince Jon, to Winterfell.” Ned bowed his head to his nephew and the rest followed.

“Thank you Uncle.” The boy’s words sounded strained, unsure. _He doesn’t know us yet. He is acting the prince when he should be acting like family._ “Your Ser Rodrick was very courteous.”

“He is a good man, Your Grace.” Ned laid his hand on Cat’s shoulders. “This is my wife, Catelyn Stark of House Tully.”

“Welcome to Winterfell, My Lord.”

“Thank you,” he said with a bow of his head. He looked up at her. “A-are you related to the Conningtons, My Lady?”

“The Conningtons?” She shook her head. “No My Lord. The Tullys have no relations with the lords of Griffin’s Roost.”

Jon bit his lip. “Ah-my apologies Lady Stark. It’s just that the Hand of the King was the only man I had ever seen with red hair before.”

“An honest mistake, My Lord. I’ll forgive you if you would call me Lady Catelyn from now on, and I call you Jon.”

Jon smiled. “I accept those terms. Thank you Lady St-“ He swallowed. “Catelyn.”

Ned mouthed _Good_ at her before he introduced Jon to Robb. He was standing tall, his hands behind his back. The two boys were of the same age, but her oldest easily stood a head taller over the Prince. “This is Robb, my oldest.”

Robb extended his hand. “Hello My Prince.”

“Hello Robb,” Jon took his hand. “Do you train in the yard?”

“Everyday!”

“And he has a good showing for it,” Ser Rodrick added. “I train the boys of Winterfell, My Prince.”

“Then I would love to train with you soon, Robb. I loved practicing with swords back home. I hated being dragged off to another of Grand Maester Pycelle’s lessons.”

“Well, we can agree on that much. Give me a sword over quill any day.” She gave Robb a supportive nod. Catelyn normally wouldn’t approve of Robb disrespecting Luwin’s lessons, but anything to help Jon settle in she’ll gladly accept.

“I am Sansa, if it pleases you, Your Grace.” Sansa curtsied with elegance.

“I am not a grace,” Jon said. “That is my father. If you could, please just call me Jon.”

“Oh, My Prince, but that would not be courteous of me.”

“Then just call me Prince Jon, if it pleases you.” There was a smile then, but compared to Robb earlier Cat felt this was more strained. _Sansa must learn Jon is more family than royalty._

She smiled at him. “It would, Prince Jon.”

And then he approached Arya. Out of all her children, Cat feared this meeting the least. Arya was quick to speak her mind, didn’t mind any of her courtly manners – and she was quick to love and welcome. “Hello Jon!” She didn’t so much extend her hand as she did put it practically in Jon’s face. Still, he kissed her fingers.

“Not calling me Prince or My Lord?” Jon was smiling.

“Not unless you want me to.”

“Jon is fine Arya. Thank you.” Sansa was glaring at her twin sister, but Catelyn felt that was exactly what Jon needed.

Bran was holding onto Arya’s fingers, but the boy was five years old and was frightened of all these strangers in his home. Jon knelt down to look at her youngest. “I’m Jon. You can call me Prince Jon if you’d like.”

Bran looked up at Arya. “Do you want me to call you Prince?”

“If you’d like. But I prefer Jon. It’s quicker.”

Bran giggled. “Okay. Hello Jon. Welcome to Winterfell.”

And then there was Theon. The Greyjoy was always in the corner of her eye. The boy was two years older, but he looked half Jon’s age as how shaken he was. _The boy is terrified. Here approaches the son of the man that killed his father and his brothers._

“You must be Theon Greyjoy.”

“I am,” he murmured.

“I heard of what happened to your Father.” Jon bit his lip, and there was a silence. Nobody in the yard said anything.

“He died a traitor’s death.” There was no conviction in the Greyjoy’s voice.

Jon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. He was your father.” Jon took a step back, curled his right hand into a fist and placed it over his heart. “What is dead may never die.” Sansa gasped. Bran looked to Arya for answers. Theon looked at Jon; confusion, fear, surprise and shock etched into his face.

Then Theon smiled and returned the gesture. “What is dead may never die.”

Cat let out a sigh of relief. That could have been a disastrous gesture. That phrase was sacred to the Iron Islanders. Instead Theon took it as Jon intended and embraced it. _The North fears what Rhaegar’s children will do when Aegon is King. But if Jon is any indication, those fears are wasted._ Benjen clasped Jon on the shoulder and praised him.

“That was well said, Prince Jon,” spoke Ser Barristan. 

“My Lords,” Ned began, “we were not expecting you for another day. We can convene in the feat hall, but I apologize if the food is not as welcoming as you’d prefer.”

“That’s on me for wanting to give you a surprise, brother.”

“Benjen, you always were good at that.” The taller man laughed, and her Ned grinned.

“My Lord Stark,” began Ser Barristan, “I am certain the food will be lovely.”

“Then allow us to put our kitchens to the test,” she said. “Follow me. Jon and Ser Barristan, we’ll lead you to your chambers afterwards. I’ll have servants fetch your things.”

“Thank you, Lady Catelyn.”

_No Jon, thank your father. For letting you come home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I know I did writing it.
> 
> I am interested in Beta Readers who would be willing to be a fresh set of eyes before I upload the chapters, so if you are interested be sure to contact me. doublehex168 at gmail dot com.
> 
> Please subscribe and comment. I would love to interact with you guys.


	2. Throes of Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The children of Winterfell grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words from last chapter. I think a mixture of the encouragement and my excitement for the story is what helped me write so much in such a short span of time. 
> 
> I actually managed to open up my fic site, so you can choose to read the story supplemented by musical cues. http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/home/ii-throes-of-want/

**THE BOY WOLF**

Bran was nine years old. He was young, with a young man’s dreams and passions. He loved to climb all the walls of Winterfell. He knew the cracks in their foundations, which stones are sturdier and which are on the breaking point. He loved the feeling of the highest wind blow at his hair, pull at his cheeks. He had such a joy in the training yards. His cousin Jon and his brother Robb would cheer him on, mixing encouraging words with friendly jabs. Arya would shout at him. ‘Go left! No right! Higher than that!’ And Theon would take him aside, and say “Bran, don’t think straight. Be like a kraken. Act like you have a dozen arms, so nobody can see what you do next.”

He had so many things he loved. He loved his family. He loved the rolling fields of his home. He loved to play tricks on his sisters and avoid what punishments he could. But there was only one thing he wanted, a dream that made his heart burst from his chest whenever he thought about it.

He wanted to be a knight. Old Nan would tell of heroes from the Age of Legend. Like Symeon Star-Eyes, who lost both his eyes and replaced them with sapphires. Although Bran would prefer to not have to be blind to be a knight. He’d hear Sansa speak with such reverence of heroic songs, and he’d hear tales like Florian and Jonquil. Theon would tell him stories from the Iron Islands, such as Torgon the Terrible. Theon would speak with a grin on his face, but Bran would rather fight someone as terrible as Torgon.

He dreamt of squiring for a knight, a knight as good and pure as you could find in all of the Kingdoms. His heart would be so chivalrous that it would radiant out from him, and his eyes would glow like gold. He’d stand against the darkness, against rolling storms that threatened to tear everything away. Bran would serve him, until the day that the knight’s time was done. And the knight would say “Now rise a Knight, Bran Stark of Winterfell,” and the dream would end.

Bran could only think of one knight that was so courageous and bold, and that was Ser Barristan the Bold. Ser Barristan was strong, but he also spoke wisely. He cautioned Robb on rash actions, sometimes was sought out for counsel by Father, and was the first man to give Bran a practicing blade. “Keep a firm grip Bran,” the Ser had said when Bran was six years old. Whereas his brothers and cousin would sometimes get irritated by his barrage of questions and shoo him off, Ser Barristan always responded. Sometimes the answers weren’t what Bran was looking for, but they were still something to ponder over.

He wanted to squire for Ser Barristan. With all his heart. If he couldn’t squire for the Bold, then he didn’t want to squire at all. Nobody else could possibly compare. But how could he raise the idea? Ser Barristan was a great knight – someone that will surely have songs written about him for years. There already were songs of his victory over Maelys the Monstrous.

“You want to squire for Ser Barristan?” Sansa was lying on a field, a flower twirling in her fingers, when Bran told her.

“I do! He is the best Knight in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But why are you coming to me about this, little brother?” Sansa continued to spin the flower in her fingers, but she turned her head towards Bran.

Why _did_ he come to Sansa? He could have gone to Robb but he was too forward and direct. “He has the wolf’s heart, not the blood,” Theon said once. And Theon was crafty and smart, but he had a wicked side that wouldn’t appeal to Ser Barristan. He couldn’t go to Mother or Father about this. He didn’t want the Ser to think this was a formal arrangement. Same reason he wouldn’t go to Jon, although he loved and trusted his cousin’s consul. He wanted to present this on his own. He needed to do this on his own.

Sansa knew the most of knights out of everyone. She could speak of any of the great songs from her heart at a moment’s notice. “She’s a southern soul, my daughter,” Father had said to Mother once. And the Southerners knew everything there is about knights. The North didn’t even _have_ knights, although plenty did dress in hardened leather and mount horses in battle. But it wasn’t the same!

“Because I trust you, sister. I know you won’t tell anyone. I want to do this on my own. Please Sansa, how can I make Ser Barristan accept me as his squire?”

“Well Bran,” she said as she turned her body towards him, “you probably already know. Besides Prince Jon, you spent more time with Ser Barristan than anyone. And he shadows be the Prince because he is kingsguard. He is surely warm to you already.”

“But a knight doesn’t take on a squire for company, Sansa.”

“No Bran, he doesn’t. But can you really tell me you don’t know anything about Ser Barristan, after all these hours spent with him?” Sansa smiled. “Bran, don’t ask me how to approach the Ser. You should be asking that of yourself.”

They had left the hills soon after, but as Bran rode his pony through Winterfall’s gates his mind was racing. He couldn’t say Sansa was wrong, but he still felt unsatisfied. After Old Nan’s great grandson Walder led the pony to the stables, Bran climbed the wall. He didn’t go for the biggest wall, just one right besides Maester Luwin’s tower. He was always the most comfortable as he climbed. He loved the feeling of the dirt riding beneath his finger nails.

He didn’t love the feeling of being caught by Mother, who always made him swear to never climb again, and he would always break that promise. Mother worried he would fall, but Bran never fell. The walls of Winterfell were a second skin to him. They would never betray him.

Everyone else worried about Bran whenever he climbed. Even Robb would shout at him to get down. Jon would advise that he stop climbing for Mother’s sake. Theon would smirk and say “If you are going to die doing something stupid, it should at least be with sword in hand. And I don’t see climbing Winterfell with a sword anytime soon.”

With a groan he lifted himself up onto the roof, his right foot first. He rolled himself over, and as he stood he could see the country stretching for miles. Dark green hills that rolled over each other. The sun was dampened by the gray clouds. With a sigh he dangled his feet over the roof. Maybe if he stayed here long enough, inspiration would hit him.

He didn’t think inspiration would be bird dung. The white gunk landed right on his shoulder. There was no way he could hide that from Mother or Septa Mordaine.

“Brandon Stark!” He heard Maester Luwin. Bran looked up and he saw the Maester was peering down on him, the window to his rookery opened wide.

“Hello Maester Luwin,” Bran said cheerfully. Maybe if he acted in good spirits the Maester wouldn’t tell Mother.

The Maester rasped at the stone edge. “You know you shouldn’t be climbing Bran. What are you doing so high?”

_This isn’t high at all. I could climb your tower if I really wanted to._ “Thinking.”

“And what could you be pondering that would need you to climb?”

Bran chewed his lip. “Something important.”

“Bran, you need to be a little bit more specific with me, or else I may feel inspired to report this to your mother.”

Bran frowned. “I want Ser Barristan to take me as a squire, and I am trying to figure out how to persuade him.”

“Then perhaps you should just ask me.” Ser Barristan appeared besides Luwin. His beard had grown longer over the years, although his hair was still as short cut as the day he had arrived with Jon. “Bran, should I come to you, or would it be quicker the other way?”

“I would advise letting Bran the opportunity to climb down, before he gets pelted again.”

Ser Barristan chuckled. “I shall meet you on the ground, Bran.”

He hurried down the slopes of the roof. He told himself to be careful. He didn’t want to slip and fall. To break himself, now of all days. But his heart was racing and he raced down. He wouldn’t hold his grip for as long as he should, he moved his feet faster than he knew was wise. He didn’t mind having a few more scraped on his palms or knees. He wanted to be standing before Ser Barristan as soon as he could.

He was waiting at the door to Maester Luwin’s tower when Ser Barristan stepped out. “Hello Bran,” he said. “Is there something you wanted to ask of me?”

Bran swallowed hard. “Ser,” he said. He took in a breath. He needed to be sure of himself. _I need to sound like a knight. I can’t be a boy._ “Ser Barristan, please take me in as your squire. I will tend to your horses, I will care for your armor. I will ride in the baggage train and safeguard your supplies, and when you deem me worthy, I will ride with you in battle.”

“You have thought of this a great deal.” The knight smiled. “I accept your proposal, Bran Stark.”

The words froze in his mind. For a moment, he couldn’t believe it. He almost wanted Ser Barristan to clarify, just to be sure. Bran had to be certain. _I’m going to be his squire. He will take me as his squire._

“Now Bran, there must be no secrets between a squire and his Ser. Do you understand?” Bran nodded, his hair whipping as he did so. “Then let me start. Lean close.” Bran did so. “I had already accepted you as my squire a day past. Your Lord Father came to me with the proposal. He believes having his second son as a knight would be a good step towards…” Barristan rubbed at his chin. “As he put it, ‘towards the South knowing the North’. And I can’t find fault in his reasoning.”

Bran felt doubt grinding in him. Was this just a political play? Bran never saw Father as someone who would care much for the Game of Thrones. Bran was certain there was more to it.

“But, Bran, your aspirations for knighthood are plain to see. You are many things, but sly is not one of them. And if I only saw this as nothing more than a symbol, I would not have accepted your father’s proposal.”

“Then why did you accept it, Ser Barristan?”

“Because I see a little of myself in you. I remember what it was like to be young, full of ambition. I wanted to help the realm, just as I am certain you wish to do. You have a good eye. You are a better judge of people than I was at your age. And with all of your climbing, I’m certain a steed will prove a minor difficulty with time.”

“Thank you Ser.” Bran was grinning. He couldn’t help it. Ser Barristan – Ser Barristan the _Bold_ was praising him. Bran reminded Ser Barristan of himself when he was young! Ser Barristan did enter his first tourney when he was ten – everyone knows that – so he must have been a squire much younger than Bran.

“Well squire,” his Ser said as he rose to his feet. “I will have you start doing the same thing my Ser, Lord Manfred Swann, had me do the first day I was his squire.”

“What would that be Ser? Shall I tend to your horse? I know how to clean a horse real well! Or are we going to the training yard?’

“Bran, you are going to oil and clean my armor until your fingers and palms are so raw you won’t even be able to feel them.”

“Oh.”

“And _then_ you will go to the training yards and I will test you. And likely leave your knees and behind just as numb.”

“Oh.” Bran chewed on his lip. Nobody said anything about a squire not being able to feel his fingers.

“But before we do all that,” and Ser Barristan pulled out a rolled up letter bearing the Targaryen seal. “We have a letter to deliver for your royal cousin.”

“Is that from the Princess?” When Jon first arrived at Winterfell, the sound of ravens flying to and from Winterfell and King’s Landing were constant. Mother had to talk with Jon that there were only so much parchment, ink and ravens in Winterfell. Bran tried to think when he ever saw a dragon sealed letter addressed for Father, and nothing came to mind.

“I have no doubt. Even hundreds of leagues apart, and those two are still thick as thieves. They were infamous in the kitchens of the Holdfast.”

That wasn’t a surprise. Bran would often join Jon and Robb in taking a snack or two…or six from the pans when one of the kitchen workers weren’t looking.

“Come now Bran. If I know Jon, then he is probably being drilled by Ser Rodrick by now. Works for us, as I have some armor there that is need of your touch.”

For once, Bran could contain his excitement.

 

**THE WINTER’S HEIR**

Theon staggered back, his free hand going to his head after Jon thrashed him. Theon ripped off his helmet, while Jon had a bemused look on his face. “I told you Theon Greyjoy-“

“I know I know! Raise the shield! Or head ring like a bell! I know!”

Robb chuckled a bit before he bit into the apple. The juices flowed down his cheek. “We’re trying to get you out of that slippery skin of yours, Theon. Got to learn the fine arts of the sword and board.”

“Apologies if I prefer to actually feel my skin breathe on a battlefield. I can beat either of you any day with a sword in both my hands.”

“Maybe in a duel, Prince of Pyke,” spoke Ser Barristan in his approach, Bran following his heels. “But in a real battle, you’ll much prefer the protective layer.”

“Ser Barristan,” Rodrik greeted as he extended his hand. The Kingsguard embraced it before he approached Jon.

“Prince, my squire and I have a letter for you. From the Princess.” He offered Jon a sealed letter, blazoned with the Targaryen dragon.

“No doubt,” Theon slurred as steadied himself.

“Wait,” Robb realized. “Squire. Ser Barristan, have you made my brother your squire?”

“I have, Robb. Your Father came to me with the proposal, and I accepted.”

“Congrats Bran,” Rodrik said. “Barristan is a fine man, and a better swordsman. He’ll make a fine Southron knight out of you.”

“A fine _Northern_ knight,” Bran said fiercely. Rodrik laughed.  

Jon broke the seal and unwrapped the letter. Robb drew close, knowing his presence would irritate Jon. Jon pushed him away and Robb laughed. “A son of the North shouldn’t be stealing private letters,” Theon said with a devilish look in his eyes. “But a Reaver has such qualms!” He sprung for Jon, who easily sidestepped the attack. Theon nearly fell face first into the dirt.

“You won’t be doing any reavings like that,” Arya laughed. She was watching the scene from above, her feet dangling over the edge of a balcony.

“Go get Theon a ball of snow for that dumb head of his,” Robb said.

“He can go get it himself.”

“Go,” Robb commanded, his voice taking on an iron tone.

Arya pouted. “Fine.” She ran out of sight, the brown mane of her hair flowing behind her.

Jon folded the letter, and Robb knew it was time to pry. “So what did it say?”

“Well,” Jon said with a smile, “it’s nothing definite. It’s not written in stone.”

“Out with it lad,” the Master-at-Arms groaned. “Even I’m getting irritated with this dancing around.”

“Dany says Father may be coming to Winterfell.”

A weird silence fell on them. For half a moment nobody said anything. “The King,” Theon said with a pause, “of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Rhaegar,” Jon added. “Yes, my Father.”

“Is coming to Winterfell,” Robb said.

“ _May_ be coming to Winterfell.”

“Prince,” Ser Barristan advised, “you would do well to elaborate on that, or else even I can’t promise your safety from these two.”

“Something is brewing in the Stormlands-”

“Something is _brewing_?” Bran interjected.

Jon shook the letter. “Dany’s words, not mine. And she says Father needs to deal with it himself. Lord Connington will sit on the Iron Throne in his absence.”

“Could it be another rebellion, Ser Barristan?” Rodrik looked to the Kingsguard.

“If it were, Rhaegar would be arriving with an army at his back. And it would be Lord Stark receiving a letter, not Prince Jon. Still, I wonder what could compel a King to leave his court.”

“I heard rumors,” Robb said, his fingers brushing his chin, “regarding Renly of Storm’s End. That he prefers rougher company than that of a woman’s.”

The Kingsguard shook his head. “And I would say that the heir to Winterfell should not be delving into such nonsense.”

“If Father can deal with whatever is going on in the Stormlands, he may come North.”

Ser Barristan crossed his arms. “A lot of mays and perhaps.”

“Not much certainty amongst the Southrons,” Ser Rodrick added. Ser Barristan did not rise to this.

“You should still tell Mother and Father.” _They need to know even the possibility. Of war. Of the need to call the banners._

Jon nodded. “With your leave, Ser Rodrik, I would find my Aunt and Uncle.”

Rodrik nodded, his whiskers shaking. “You have it, Prince Jon. Good work today. Less can be said for a certain kraken.”

Jon left, leaving Theon to Rodrik’s jabs and Bran to rubbing at Ser Barristan’s armor. The days passed into weeks, and the weeks became months. No word came regarding the King. Father’s irritation was written all over his face, and Jon became more downcast as the days slipped away. The letters from King’s Landing became more frequent, but they were all variations of the same message. “No word from Storm’s Landing. Your Father is well. The Stormlanders still bicker. Nobody tells me why. I wish to arrive with my brother soon.”

And then the fated letter arrived. Robb and Jon were riding around Winterfell when the raven came. Maester Luwin had found them soon after they passed under the gates. Jon read it from atop his palfrey, and by the time he was done he scowled and ripped the letter apart. It was the first time that Robb had ever seen his cousin treat one of the princesses’ letters like that.

Robb didn’t need to ask what it had said. The message was clear on Jon’s face.

It was raining hard when the letter from Uncle Benjen arrived. Far too hard to make Ser Rodrick consider making the boys train. “You’re more likely to slip on your ass than do any good. Just stay warm boys. We’ll manage tomorrow.” So they were all stuck indoors, and Jon’s temperament was contagious. Arya and Sansa were fighting more than usual, and Septa Mordanehad to break them up to their respective rooms. Theon was making quips, and Robb found none of them amusing.

Mother had found him in the library. “What are you doing here Robb?” She knew her son. He would never go into the library if he could help it.

“Just staying out of trouble. Mostly from Jon. I don’t really feel like having a black eye.”

“Just let him be in peace Robb. Jon needs to sort out these demons on his own.”

Robb scratched at his chin. “What are you doing here mother? I know you never cared for Winterfell’s library.”

She walked past some of the tomes. “Progeny of the North, Ravages of the Iron Borne, The Liberation of the Bears by Way of Rodrik Stark.” She shook her head. “No, I have no love for Winterfell’s dreary tomes. Give me legends and songs. I could read that by the hearth.”

“You still didn’t answer my question, Mother.”

“You Father received a letter from your Uncle Benjen.”

Robb raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What of?”

“The date has been set. Three months from now.” Benjen’s wedding to Wynafryd of Manderly. That was the reason for him living in White Harbor for all these years. The question of when had always been up in the air. It seemed that Uncle had finally worked something definite with the Lard Lord of White Harbor.

“Where would Father be?”

“In his Solar I’m sure, avoiding the rain. Same reason you’re down here in this library.”

He gave Mother a small kiss on the cheek and he left the library. He was almost a man grown. He was heir to the North. Father would want to bring the entire family to the wedding – and he had the right. Luwin or Rodrik may be left behind to safeguard things, but otherwise a good fifty men would depart from Winterfell in a few months time. But Robb needs to establish himself as the future Lord of Winterfell. He had met a few of Father’s bannermen, but not enough. Not by far. It’s a rare opportunity to gather all of the Lords of the North under one roof, and this wedding would be it.

_He must send me alone. Maybe with Jon. I need to make myself known to these Lords. As more than just a name written on a piece of paper._

Father was exactly where Mother said he was. He was laying on a chair that was wrapped in wolf pelts. He was dressed in a loose robe, and the hearth was midway through its life. He turned towards Robb as he entered. “Robb, come. Sit by the hearth. Warm your bones.”

He found a chair that was further from the fire. He wasn’t here to get warm. “I heard from Mother you received a letter from Uncle Benjen.”

Father nodded. “He finally wrangled out an agreement from Wyman. We set out for White Harbor in two months. All of my banner men will surely be there. I wonder if Manderly would insist on a septem. He probably would. I bet that was the final detail.”

“Father, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Father raised an eyebrow. “Son, there is no need to worry. Benjen isn’t converting anytime –“

“No, not that. All of your bannermen will be there. Umber, Karstark, Glover, Forrester and all the rest of them. All under one roof. They don’t know me.”

“They will. I plan on showing you to all of them, and you’ll display yourself as the firm Lord of Winterfell that they will swear allegiance to.”

Robb leaned forward. “Send me alone. Perhaps with Jon as well. I need to do this on my own Father. I am four and teen. I am your first son and heir. They cannot associate me with just your name, Father. They must see me as the Lord that I will be. I can do that either on a battlefield or by mingling amongst them. And I don’t see a war coming.”

Father looked at Robb. “No,” he said after a time. Robb was about to speak but Father raised his hand. “You had your peace, now give me mine. I cannot send you alone, not even with just Jon. They would not see you as a Lord, they would see you as a green whelp. A boy overstepping himself before his time. I would be throwing you to a pack of dogs. And if you arrived with just Jon…” He sighed. “The North remember. We haven’t forgotten the slights Rhaegar gave us.”

“He defeated us in battle. He gave us quarter.”

“And my Lords haven’t forgotten that I was the one that bent the knee. The charge on Pyke took out some of the salt in the wound, but it’s still fresh. And Jon is just as much a Southerner as he is a Northman. If he could flee from Winterfell to be with the dragons, he would do so without a second thought. But if it came to blows and the North had to raise its banners, he would be there right alongside us. In truth, I was glad Rhaegar didn’t come to visit.”

“Do you think the Lords would have raised a commotion?”

“No doubt, but that’s not why. I would be afraid that Rhaegar would force me to make a choice for Jon. He is four and ten, and marriage is certainly a discussion Rhaegar needs to be having. I feared Rhaegar would bring Jon to Kings Landing, to marry some Southron girl. Perhaps a Tyrell or one of the Stormlanders.”

“Then why not write to him, suggest a union in the North?”

“I considered that as well. He is dragon and wolf both. But would the North accept him yet? He is the son of the man that brought ruin of my family. My brother, father and sister are all dead at the hands of one Targaryen or another. He may be Stark, but dragon fire runs in his veins as well. If there is anything the North wants, it would be a Targaryen bride.”

“The Pact.” Robb knew the story well. During the Dance, Princess Rhaenyra promised Cregan Stark that a son or daughter of the dragon would marry a Stark. A bloodline to the Iron Throne. The Pact of Ice and Fire, they called it. Many things happened after that, but Cregan never got that royal blood. The North hadn’t forgotten that slight.

“Now imagine if it was just you and Jon at White Harbor. A son that presumes he is higher than he is, and the living symbol of what started the Rebellion. A son of northern and crowned blood, true, but not the heir. It would not be a warm reception Robb. Not to mention it would be an insult to your Uncle for his family to see him on his wedding day.”

_I forgot what this was supposed to be about. Honoring Uncle. Celebrating him on his union. Not an opportunity to propel myself. To make myself appear as a Lord._

“Forgive me Father.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” He laid a hand on Robb’s knee. “You are young, passionate. You want to prove yourself. I see myself in you, the day Robert and I vowed to bring the Targaryens low. A moment will come when you will have your day. You will rise up and summon the banners. A day when I cannot lead, and you will take my mantle. And Robb, I promise you, I will look at you with pride. But it won’t be at your Uncle’s wedding.”

Robb leaned back into his chair, lying his head against the warm fur. “So what do you want to do about Jon?”

“What do I want to do, or what will I need to do?”

Robb considered for a moment. “Both.”

Father sucked in a breath as he looked into the fire. “If I had my way? Jon is a Northern soul. There is some of the Southrons in him, but his years here have weaned most of that out. Except for the letters from the Princess.”

“So you’d marry him to Daenerys?”

Father shook his head. “No. I would give him a Northern bride, perhaps a Mormont. They already allowed Lyanna to act as one of Daenerys’ ladies, although at the Princesses’ petition. They would probably receive Jon as well. And they have always been loyal to us. And in truth, I considered one of your sisters.”

Robb looked agape. “Sansa?”

“Or Arya. Both would be a fine match, in terms of character. But my Lords wouldn’t favor it, and I need to keep them in the back of my mind. And it probably rings a little bit too close to the Targaryens.”

“Marrying cousins is not the same as laying with your sister. Your father and mother were cousins.”

“They were,” Father nodded. “But they also weren’t Targaryens. Even we Northmen have our hypocrisies. Maybe in a few years they would be more receptive. Maybe after this wedding Jon will show his character, and they will see him as the son of Lyanna Stark, instead of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“So if that is what you _want,_ then you feel you will need to give Jon over to the Crownlands.”

“I won’t need to. I’ll have to. Rhaegar is still Jon’s father, and he has more right to marriage proposals than anyone in Winterfell. He’ll return Jon to those pit of vipers, and if half of what I hear is true, Jon will suffer for it.”

“Well,” Robb said, “if half of what I hear of the Princess is true, there are still good people within the Crownlands.”

Father nodded as turned towards the fire. “Aye, there are good people, anywhere you go. And some of them shine all the better for it.” He sighed. He looked almost wistful. “Perhaps Jon should marry the Princess, but I don’t see the King permitting it. He seems to be steering away from the Targaryen tradition of incest – which I would approve. But that would mean Jon and Daenerys would not be on Rhaegar’s mind, and he would need good convincing of otherwise. That would bring Jon Southwards, not to the North where he belongs. There is no political gain with it, and the King needs even more of a political foothold than I do. The realm is healing, but the realm remembers who was the man that started the fire. Aerys laid most of the kindling, but Rhaegar dropped the torch.”

“Then what hope is there for Jon? He only has six years more with us.”

“Six years is a long enough time Robb. Long enough for us to devise a plan. To keep Jon with us, where he belongs. Maybe your sisters would be a fine fit, after all.”

 

**A GIRL OF SONGS**

“Just leave it Sansa!” Arya slapped her sister’s hand away. “No point messing with it. Not like we’re going to a wedding.”

“We will, in a few days,” Sansa said. She watched as Theon loosed the arrow from his boy. It landed right in the red center of the target. “Greyjoy!” she clapped and cheered. Theon turned towards the paltry audience and bowed, a smirk on his lips.

_He would be more comely if he just smiled for once, instead of all those smirks and grins._

“Yeah, well it’s not today. And Father said it will take us a week or so to get to White Harbor. So what’s the rush?” Robb raised his bow, the arrow nocked. “Go Robb!” He loosed the arrow, but it was sloppy. The arrow span through the air, and it barely hit the white of the target. Arya grimace. “It was a good try,” she murmured to Sansa.

_Robb is no bowman. Theon is the one with the talents for it. I don’t know why Robb keeps on challenging Theon. Everyone knows what will happen._

Robb spat on the ground. “Well, we all know that a bow is no real man’s weapon.”

Theon let out a laugh. “Yeah, like the one between his legs!” Sansa should have been horrified by that. It was gross and dire. But she was used to Theon’s jabs by now. He was rude, ill mannered, and was the one man she could rely on for sound counsel. Theon said things as he saw it.

“Shall we try again? Best…oh, seven out of nine?” Arrows stuck out from the field like a porcupine’s back, while the center of the target was riddled with holes.

“Damn you Theon,” Robb muttered as he took a small purse from his belt and threw it. Greyjoy caught it with ease. “Take your cursed coin.”

“My _earned_ coin you mean. I’ll make good use of it at White Harbor.”

Jon was nowhere to be seen. In the months following the news that the King wouldn’t be coming North, Jon had turned to seclusion. He didn’t have the merriment that Sansa remembered. He used to always tease Arya, ruffle her hair, let her chase him through the grounds. She remembered how courteous Jon was to her, how lightly he’d tease her for always calling him “Prince”. It has been a long time since Jon had done any of those things.

She thought that Robb or Theon would have been able to get through to him. Robb did nothing of the sort. “Let Jon be,” he had told Arya once. “Sometimes you just need to be alone.” What did Robb know of loneliness, though? From the moment they were born they had each other. Theon had tried to talk to the Prince, but by the end of it Greyjoy had stormed out red in the face.

_Jon needs to be reminded that the King is a good man. He fell in love and fought for love. I should go to him. The Prince needs a lady’s touch._ She moved from the fence. “Where you going?” Arya asked, her legs swaying.

“I’m going to find Prince Jon.”

“Leave the fool be,” Theon said. “If he wants to sulk, let him.”

“In two days time we will be riding together. No way he can be by himself then. Best he learned the lesson now.” She left them then. It was a bright day in Winterfell, a rare sight. _Must be a good sign. The Mother must approve_. She wondered where Jon could be. He may be in his chambers, but it was still too early in that. Jon never cared for lingering in the crypts, even if Aunt Lyanna was buried there.

She knew to find him in the Weirdwood Grove. Mother had never felt comfortable in this Grove, but Sansa never had any such reservations. She was anointed under the Seven, but she never felt the need to reject the Old Gods This was the North. The Old Gods had claimed these lands.

Prince Jon was laying against the white bark of the tree, the crimson leaves scattered amongst the grass. There was a small pool that wrapped across the grove. _What did he hope to find here?_

“Hello My Prince,” she announced her approach.

“Sansa,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“My brother was asking for you.” It was a lie, but a sweet one, born from good intent. “Robb keeps on being bested by Theon at the range. You should join them.”

“I am not in the mood for archery.” He rubbed his fingers. “Never had the talent for it.”

“Then may I join you then?”

The Prince shrugged. “This is more your home than mine, Sansa.” _That’s not true, but that isn’t the battle I am fighting today._

“Do you come here often, Prince?” She found her place beside him, lying against the tree.

“Enough for people to know I come here.”

Sansa smiled. “You have many qualities, Prince Jon, but subtlety is not one of them.”

The Prince closed his eyes and laid his head against the white oak. “I like the quiet here. There’s only me.”

“And nothing to remind you of the King?” Jon turned towards her. “Forgive me, My Prince, but it’s no secret where your hurt comes from.”

“Then perhaps you should leave me be?”

“Forgive me Prince, but that is not the Northern way. I am sure your Lady Mother wouldn’t approve.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “And what would you know of my mother?”

“I know she loved your father,” she said. “It was such a beautiful story. A Prince of Dragonstone laying his eyes on an untamed beauty, and throwing all else aside declared his love for her.”

“And how many died for it?”

She was taken aback. “Oh, Prince Jon, I did not mean to make it slight. Songs could be written by the love of your Mother and Father.”

“Songs?” he asks. “Sansa Stark you don’t know a damn thing.” She stared at him. “You want to speak of my mother? Go into the crypt. Her bones are in there now. You can go see them for yourself. Go see what your songs are worth, what a man’s love is worth.”

“No Prince, that’s not true. You surely can’t-“ He rose up and walked away from her. “My Prince!” she called out. He didn’t respond as he left her behind in the Grove.  

She dared not rise up to follow him. She remembered words Father had told her once. “The Prince was born in tragedy. Show him love, my daughters. I don’t know if he will ever see the like again once he leaves us.”

_I had made a terrible mistake_. It was a weird realization, the like she never expected to come to. Not as a girl of one and ten years. _I was only trying to help you Prince Jon_. His Father _did_ love his Mother. Everyone spoke of how fiercely the King looked at Lyanna at Harrenhal, as he laid the crown of winter roses on her head. That could be nothing but love.

So why did Jon reject her? What did she say that was wrong? _I remember the stories. They always had a shining prince and a maiden._ But then she remembered what Maester Luwin told her, once as a little girl. “Not everything is a song.” From the Grove she could see the tip of Maester Luwin’s tower. The library was not far off from there.

_History is another sort of song_. She rose up and made her way out of the Grove and towards the small library. The library was never large. “You should see the library at Oldtown,” he reminisced once. “A structure so large we had to bury into the ground to make more room.” Sansa had never cared to visit the that library, but as she opened the creaky doors to the library of Winterfell, she realized that was foolish.

Would Father even order a history of the Rebellion? Of the life of Lyanna Stark and her love for the Dragon? _I don’t know the Prince. Four years and I don’t know him. He won’t speak to me._ She had to find a book. Most of the tomes and scrolls were covered in dust.  There was light shining through the windows.

The afternoon light was replaced by the moon, and four large tomes loomed over Sansa. She looked at the letters with eyes half open, fluttering as she tried to stay awake. She had already fallen into a daze four times now. The songs were always so colorful and vivid. You could just see the heroes appear from the words. But these tomes were so dry and void of any passion. How could Maester Luwin bare to read any of these, let alone thousands upon thousands? How did an entire order be formed around reading these dull books?

She was almost willing to just leave the library and the dust behind. But then she remembered what the Prince had told her. _You don’t know a damn thing._ She groaned as her heavy head hit the table. “Why can’t they write like the bards?” she groaned into the wood.

There was a creak as the library door opened. Sansa raised her head and saw the Prince, his hair just as dark as the night, enter. “Sansa?” He looked surprised.

“Oh,” she said as she raised her head. “Hello Prince.” She tucked some of her crimson hair behind her ear.

“You look…busy,” he said with no conviction. “I could come back later.”

“Oh no, My Prince,” she rose up. “I was just leaving.” _That was not a convincing lie._

“You were?” Even in the shadows, she could see Prince Jon’s eyebrow was raised up in suspicion.

Sansa sighed. “You can stay if you’d like.” The Prince approached. “I should be leaving.”

“The Tragedy at Sumerhall.” Jon murmured the words of the open book. “Why would you be reading something like this?” He looked at her and sighed. “I should not have said that to you. That was unfair of me.”

“You’re wrong, Prince. I overstepped myself. I wanted to…I don’t know what I am trying to do with these books. The wording is so droll I am spending more time staying awake than I am doing anything.”

For the first in a long time, Jon smiled. “I remembered how bored I was at the Grand Maester’s lessons. I always wanted to be in the yard.”

“You do have a good arm for it. Arya speaks highly of you.”

“She watches us nearly every day. Someone should really put a sword in her hands.”

“You shouldn’t encourage her. Mother is having a hard enough time trying to make a proper lady out of her.”

Prince Jon shrugged. “Maybe.” He flipped through a book, keeping a thumb to mark the page. The Prince found the cover, and trailed over the golden etched letters. “’The Cycles of the Dragon. A _Presitgious_ History of the Targaryen Legacy.’ Gods, that sounds droll.”

“Not too far from the truth. But I felt…Prince, you said I knew nothing.”

“Sansa-“

“So I wanted to fix that. I thought history was just another song, that maybe I could learn something.”

“And what did you learn?”

She flipped the pages back to the burning summer retreat of the Targaryens. “Your King Father was born in tragedy. That must still have some weight on him. I don’t know the workings of Kings. But your Father must have loved your Mother. I don’t know how I know it, Prince, but I do. None of the books say so, but he went to war for your Mother’s heart. And at the end she gave him you. Please forgive me for saying so, but he must have broken his heart to not come North after the Stormlands.”

Jon breathed. “Did you know I have not yet received a single letter from him? Not one.”

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “All news of the capitol you receive from Princess Daenerys.”

“What want he must have for me, to not speak to me since I left him.” His lips were quivering.

“Jon,” she said as she held his hand. And then Jon’s head fell on her shoulders, and she heard him weeping softly. She wrapped him in the hem of her sleeves. She didn’t say anything to him.

“He killed for Mother. Why doesn’t he come for me?”

She had no answer for him. She just held him for a very long time.

 

**THE GIRL WITH WOLF BLOOD**

It was a long journey south towards White Harbor. Arya was usually stuck with Sansa and Mother in the wheelhouse, but sometimes Mother would permit her to go ride on a pony. “But only within earshot! Don’t you go ride too far off!” Those moments were the best. Her hair in a ponytail, the cold air whipping at her face. She didn’t know how Mother and Sansa could stand it – although Sansa seemed to haver nose buried in a book as big as her.

She smelled the port before they laid eyes on it. They were riding over a hill and she saw the sprawling city. There was a sparkle in Theon’s eyes. “Oh, I can smell it. The sea, the fish. Haven’t seen it since Pyke.”

“Are you crying?” Arya said with a smile.

“Oh shut it Arya. A man should cry when he wants. And I’ll cry for the sea any day.”

It was an hour before they passed under the Seal Gate, a massive door painted white and carved with the insignia of its namesake. Arya could hear the coughs from Sansa as the smell of fish filled the air. She couldn’t even help putting a hand to her mouth. Theon laughed. Sansa wanted to punch him, she didn’t want to fall off her pony.

The streets were built from white stone, so that must have been where the city had gotten its name. Or, it used to. Most of the streets were covered in dirt and filth, with only the occasional white to sparkle through it all. They passed by vendors and carts advertising all sorts of weird things to eat. Theon pointed them all out to her.

“That there’s a whitefish. Only eat it if you have a tub of butter around. And that hard thing, that looks like a red bug? That’s a lobster. Once you crack it open there is a meat so succulent you will never want anything else for all your days. Your tunic will be a right mess though.”

“Look there,” Jon said after awhile. He pointed towards a white castle resting on a hill, with high walls wrapped around it. “Uncle just said that’s the New Castle. We’re almost there.”

“High enough to get away from all this stinking fish,” she hoped. Jon laughed and rustled her hair. She giggled as he did so. Jon had been happier since they had set off from Winterfell.

“I remember eating fish before, in the Holdfast. Theon!” he called out behind him. “How would you class cod?”

“As a poor man’s fish!” Theon answered.

Jon frowned. “I thought it was good,” he murmured.

The teal banners of the Merman whipped above them as they approached the hill. Manderly men approached them, led by a portly man with a long mustache that whipped as he rode. “Welcome, Starks of Winterfell!” The man’s voice was like a trumpet, and his fat cheeks were flushed red. “It would be my pleasure, as is the House of Manderly, Head of White Harbor to –“

“My family is tired and sore,” Father cut off the man. “They would retire.”

“Of course My Lord. Absolutely. Follow me, at once.” The iron gates were shaped like tridents, and as they raised above Arya feared they would pin them. But they stood unwavering above them as they passed. After the wheelhouse was parked they were led through the halls of New Castle. “My esteemed lord Wyman had already anticipated your arrival. A feast of salted clam chowder and salmon with lemons and mashed potatoes are awaiting you at your earliest convenience.”

Arya never felt the prospect of food so revolting.

That is until she ate it, a few hours later. The Lord of Manderly was the fattest man she had ever seen, and his sons Wylis and Wendel came close. Both of them bore the same dangling mustcaches. Father said to her, in a hushed tone, that they looked like walruses. Arya did not know what a walrus was, but she took Father’s word for it. Benjen had greeted them with warmth. He gave Arya the wettest kiss on her cheek in years. And while Lord Wyman spoke loud enough to fill the Merman Court, his deep voice bouncing off of the sea creatures shaped walls, Arya looked down at the gray broth. It had a thick stench, and white clumps of meat rose to the surface. She looked to Theon, whom had drips of it pouring from his chin. She took a spoon, tip of the tongue tasting it before putting the entire thing in, and it was rich and creamy.

She didn’t doubt Theon’s love for seafood after that.

“Where is your betrothed?” Father asked Benjen.

“Not up to the task today Ned. Wynafryd’s stomach has not been agreeing with her. The Maester gave her something. She’ll be fine for the wedding.” She saw Mother look with suspicion as she slurped on the chowder.

In the betrothed’s place was Wylla Manderly, the younger sister. Her hair was tightly bound and braided, but it was dyed a dark green. Arya couldn’t think why anyone would want their hair to look like grass. She sat beside Jon. Or was sat beside him. Regardless, she and Jon were sitting together and talking. She couldn’t really hear what they were saying, but Arya bet it was something as stupid as what Sansa would say. ‘Oh Prince Jon, you must tell me all of your stories from King’s Landing.’ Like Jon had anything good to say about the capitol. The King never wrote to him, and she hated the King because of it. Jon had nothing good to say about the Queen, and Arya bet she was the worse of them all.

Jon didn’t talk much to her about the Princess, but he always seemed happy whenever he got one of her letters. Arya felt she was the one good thing about that stupid capitol. _Winterfell should be the capitol. It’s too cold for people to think about doing stupid things. Then Jon would never have to leave, and maybe I could finally meet the Princess._

Bran was right next to Ser Barristan, and the old knight was speaking to one of the fat lord’s fat lordly sons. They all looked alike, Arya couldn’t tell one of the Manderlys from the others. How did they all get to be so big, and how did any of them fight in the war? Father said they fought in the war. Arya could not believe it as she looked on them. A large scar did run down one of their faces – maybe it was Wendel? He _was_ supposed to be the younger of the two, and supposedly the most brave and courageous. But that was coming from Lord Wyman’s mouth, and what Father wouldn’t boast of his sons?

Arya couldn’t think how Father could say one bad thing about any of his children.

That dinner had gone on longer than she had liked. Long after the last bit of clam chowder was slurped, and long after the last bit of salmon was plucked from its bones, the Manderlys continued to speak and laugh and cheer and talk about the future wedding. Except for Wylla, who seemed just as tired as any of Arya’s brother and sisters. But for some reason Father continued to oblige Lord Wyman with conversation, and Robb always found more words to add to the conversation. By the time Father finally rose, and the Starks and Manderlys followed, Arya was hardly awake herself. Too much fish, and too long without a bed to lie in.

They had arrived a month early. “We are Starks, the seat of the North,” Robb had told her on the road. “We must always be first.” After they arrived at White Harbor, Arya wanted to explore the streets. “It’s not that much bigger than Winterfell!” she petitioned Mother. “I’ll be fine.”

“Arya Stark, you are either being a liar or ignorant, and I won’t have either from you. White Harbor is the biggest city in the North. You are _not_ leaving New Castle alone.”

For a few weeks she sulked in the halls of New Castle. She never saw Uncle Benjen’s betrothed, although Wylla came to her a few times and offered to invite her for some embroidery. Arya didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t want to show her crooked fingers. _She’s only trying to be nice. It isn’t like she knows I can’t stitch._ So two times she refused Wylla, but on the third she relented.

Wylla had brought needs and fabric to her chamber. Each of the Stark children, as well as Theon and Jon, were given their own rooms. “Father says we can afford anything for the Starks. They saved us when we had nothing,” Wylla had said to Arya. Arya wondered what Wylla had meant by that, but she didn’t ask.

She had begun with what must have been a trident, with it being a long spear with forking heads. It was straight, but Wylla made the points curve so well. Her fingers made no effort at making the fabric twist and turn. Arya thought she could make a direwolf, but it was just a mess.

“Hold on,’ Wylla said. She took Arya’s needle. “You are going too fast. This isn’t a horse race.” If Sansa had said those words, they would have come off coarse and mean. But somehow, Wylla made it seem like she cared. “Do you ride horses?”

“Whenever I can. It lets get me out of those stupid dresses.”

“Oh. I thought you looked rather pretty in them.” Arya blushed. _Sansa never said I looked pretty in any dress. She always said how dirty I made them, and how my hair was always a mess._ “What’s wrong with dresses?”

“I can’t run in them. You can’t play in a dress. You can’t fight with swords in a dress.”

Wylla looked confused. “You can wield a sword?”

“No,” she said reluctantly. “But I want to! I don’t know why girls can’t be warriors too. Princess Nymeria was a girl, and she was a warrior too. She led the Rhoynar away from the dragons! And they say Queen Visenya loved chain more than silk.”

“I also heard Queen Visenya practiced dark magics.”

Arya frowned. “Doesn’t mean all queen with swords have to be terrible.”

Wylla smiled. “Arya, if you were a queen with a sword, what would you do?”

She looked up into Wylla. “I don’t know. I guess I’d make it all girls can fight if they want. Everyone should get to be what they want.”

Wylla smiled. “That’s a nice idea. I hope you get to be queen someday.”

Arya looked at the embroidery. It was a mess. _It doesn’t even look like a wolf. It looks like a freak._ “I don’t want to be Queen. I don’t want to be a Lady. I want to decide that for myself.”

The wedding was a few days after that. They had to go into a Sept, like how Sansa and Mother would always want to pray in. It was covered in a weird smell, and dirt was thrown around that got in her eyes. The hall was built from white wood. _This better not be Weirwood_ , Arya worried. Mother forced Arya to put on a dress, the type that was really hard to move in. At least the ones she would usually be forced to wear she could run around in. With this she could hardly walk. Or breathe. Or do much of anything except look “pretty” and “lady like”.

Wynafryd was a beautiful woman, by Arya’s reckoning. She didn’t have the hair that was dyed like seaweed. Wylla was kind, but Arya still didn’t know why anyone want their hair to look like that. _I’m a horseface and I wouldn’t want to change my hair like that._ Wynafryd had her hair tied and bundled, and her dress was teal with shades of white. It looked rather tight around her. She was cloaked in the colors of House Manderly, the merman stitched into an emblazonment. Lord Wyllys led his daughter down the aisle, his pudgy hands clasped with tenderness around her small fingers. Uncle Benjen was waiting in the end, and his robe was black and gray. The colors of House Stark, the Wolves of the North. Right beside him was another fat man, in a robe of seven alternating colors. It was like every man in White Harbor didn’t know when to stop eating fish.

Wynafryd was presented to Uncle Benjen, and with no words exchanged Uncle took her fingers into his. Lord Wyllys found his place amongst his family, where the merman banner flew above them. “You may now cloak the bride,” the Septon slurred, “and bring her under your protection.” Every word was like he was gasping for air. Uncle Benjen removed the cloak around Wynafryd’s shoulders, and replaced it with one showcasing the wolf of House Stark.

The speton stepped towards the audience. “My Lords and My Ladies, we stand here in the sight of, ah, gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” Uncle looked into Wynafryd, and Wynafryd looked into Uncle. A young boy arrived with a long piece of ribbon. Uncle took it into his hand, and he laid his free hand over his bride’s. The Septon returned to them and tied the ribbon around their hand. “Let it be known that Lord Benjen of House Stark and Lady Wynafryd of House Manderly are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be they that would seek to tear them asunder.” The man turned his head towards the audience. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” He untied the ribbon.

Arya nudged, thinking that was the end of it. _That is the end, right? They just got sealed together._ The man turned towards Uncle and Wynafryd. _Oh seven hells_. “Look upon each other and say the words.” _I’ll be flowed by the time this is all over._

They spoke at once, together. Wynafryd with a little more conviction than Uncle. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone….and Stranger. I am hers-“

“I am his-“

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

“With this kiss,” Uncle said, “I pledge my love.” He kissed her, and it looked like they had practiced this part quite well. _It would be awkward for them to kiss for the first time in front of so many people_. Then the crowd cheered and applauded and Arya followed after a moment.

“How many old people died before a wedding was done?” she asked, to no one in particular, not loud enough to be heard over the applause.

 

**WEAVER OF THREADS**

You stand in the forest alone. The winding path is before you. The wind blows through you. The gray leaves dance through the air. He would be twenty by now, if you are right. If you picked the right threads of light to follow from the canopies. It is all familiar to you, this scene. You have seen it a thousand upon a thousand times.

They were all the wrong threads, those thin slices of other weaves. You hope this is the right one. You have grown so tired of failure. You are only human.

Jonaehrys Targaryen is racing through the forest path, Robb Stark of Winterfell close behind him. They do not see you. They never will. You are not truly here. They will dash across the bridge, the brook flowing beneath them. In a moment they will come across the corpse. With an antler in one, in another perished to starvation, and in some it is just dead with no explanation or rhyme or reason. The Song has always dictated that the wolf be dead.

It is when you come across the dead wolf, more massive than anything else south of the Wall, is when you know you have found it. Jon will say to Robb “Go tell your father.” And Robb will only consider for a moment before he dashes off, back where they would soon race.

But that is all in the future, a moment from now, away from the present you have frozen for yourself. No winds blow, and the leaves dangle in the air. The wolf mother is covered in scars, slices caused by talons and ripped by beaks. You can see the four pups, muzzling on the teats of their mother. They do not know what has happened. They won’t know what it like to not have someone to care for them. Eddard Stark will arrive soon, followed by his Man-At-Arms, the Kingsguard and his squire. Bran. The boy who wanted to be a knight. He would be five and ten by now in this thread. He would be ten in some, and even younger in a few. But here he will be almost a man.

One of the pups is dead. It had lived, but only for a few moments. It was meant for Rickon, in another life, another world. But the wild one was dead, and his rabid companion has no purpose in this living. You move on, away from one scene to another. You feel the stream pull you to the pup. Jonaehrys will find it. You will pull him to it, compel him to find it.

But the pup is dead. The black wolf does not breathe as it lays against the willows of the creek. You can see the threads that linger to it, how it stands in the weaving. One beast with so many possible futures, and so many paths to tread. _Jon_. Snow in one, Dragon in another, Bastard in some, Prince in a few. So many weavings.

The pup is meant to be dead in this telling, but the dark is approaching faster than it should. Fairness was never a promise, but a balance should be made. Let the dark come, with all the haste it can muster. Let there be some light. You feel the threads, all the paths and lives that can be changed with one decision. You find another world, another time, another weaving, where the beast lives. You pull one into another, you weave that telling with your own. Let the happiness of that story come into this one. You push down, and feel the heart. A twist, a moment of pain. The black of the fur fades, paling and bleaching. There will still be a mark, a black spot, a reminder of what you were and what you have done just now.

The pup’s eyes will open, and it will be so very red. Like another life you had almost forgotten.

The wind blows, the leaves fall. Robb is already leaving, yelling at his steed to go faster. The Black Prince is looking back. There is unease on his mind. He is looking back at the wolf corpse. He is wondering what he has found. He is wondering what has changed. He has already received the letter. The Dragon is coming North. His family is coming north. He will see the Princess.

His Father is coming. The man is twenty is years old. He will not have seen his Father in ten years. He thinks that is an eternity. In some weavings, he doesn’t know his Father at all. In others, he doesn’t even know what his Mother did for him. This Prince doesn’t know his blessings.

When his Uncle comes, he will look at the corpse. He will look at the pups. He will see the scars. Everyone will know what that means. The stillness in the air as they see the marks of the hawk. A hawk that killed a direwolf. The Lord of Winterfell will say the beasts must be killed. “It is a mercy,” he will say. The salted son will come forth, dagger in hand, and say it has to be done. Robb will protest. Theon will call Robb a brother, but state he takes orders only from his father.

And then Jon will state his peace. The Starks were destined for the pups. He does not mention himself. He knows what he is. A dragon in wolven furs. He will not know that there is a wolf waiting for him.

A ghost of another life, of another world. A mark of how you changed this line, for the better. A small beacon, in a darkening world. A testament to the endurance of the Song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals in wants and desires. What do our characters want, and how do they want to achieve them?
> 
> We begin with Bran, thinking on how to become a squire to Ser Barristan. Bran's is easy to understand. He has a dream of being a knight. He hears stories of knights doing heroic deeds - so he wants to be a knight because he has that association in his mind. I considered Bran persuading Barristan all on his own, but I also wanted to prelude Eddard trying to expand the North. This will be further showcased in future chapters. Borders are falling. 
> 
> Robb wants to be Lord. He was groomed for this, and he is eager and excited to take the mantle. I wanted to use this scene to show that the North is still bitter about the war. Edd tells Robb he just can't go there alone with Jon. Jon is still seen as more "dragon" than "wolf". I also wanted to show that the North isn't all honest and straight faced. Look back to canon, where Greatjon Umber didn't respect Robb until Grey Wind ripped off two his fingers. "Your meat is mighty tough". Robb hasn't shown how tough his meat is yet. Thrown to the dogs indeed. 
> 
> But we also get to see what Edd wants. He wants Jon to stay in the North. We get hints of the Pact of Ice and Fire (which is 100% canon, BTW). Jon is both Stark and Targaryen, that's true. But he is not the heir. Aegon, his older brother, is. That is not what the Pact promised, and Jon is not the argument that Rhaegar fulfilled the Pact with Lyanna. 
> 
> Also I wanted to showcase that noble families married their cousins ALL THE DAMN TIME in Westeros. For reasons. 
> 
> I didn't want Sansa to be an innocent, naive girl in this fic. The contest is different. In canon she is 12 years old. When the story really starts, after this "Prologue at Winterfell" arc, she will be 17. So I wanted this chapter to lay the groundworks for Sansa being a much more intelligent and shrewd individual. Jon tells her a hard truth - that songs are not truth, that acting "proper" or "lady like" is not what is always needed. He spits her world view in her face. 
> 
> The scene with Jon and Sansa in the library was inspired by the "Why doesn't he want me?" scene from "Fresh Prince of Bel Air". I wanted to show Jon vulnerable and trying to understand his father, and someone trying to understand him. It was originally going to be Eddard. I considered this could establish his role with him as a father figure to Jon. But I decided against it and went with Sansa instead, to further help lay the groundworks that she is growing up, that she is leaving songs behind. "History is another sort of song". 
> 
> We move to Arya, several months later. This was the perspective I struggled the most with, because I really wasn't sure what I wanted here. To be honest I still don't. It does help do some world building, and we do get to see Arya realize that she just wants to make her own choices. But its still an awkward perspective, and I'm not entirely happy with it. 
> 
> We end with...something weird. I had a blast writing "Weaver of Threads". I used 2nd person perspective, instead of 3rd, and I wrote in a very strange and unnatural tone compared to the rest of my writing. This is me taking my gloves off. This AU is going to be different. Ghost's name is somewhat literal here. It's also a good timeskip, and I didn't want to retread on ground we have walked before. We saw the execution in the TV show and the books, and there really isn't anything different I could add that would have substance.


	3. Southron Ambitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conspiracy is unmasked, another is revealed, and Daenerys learns of the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/home/iii-southron-ambitions/
> 
> I would like to thank my beta readers. Your feedback is always valued.

**THE STORMBORN**

It had been two months since they had departed from King’s Landing. Rhaegar was heading northwards, to Winterfell and his son, and the court was coming with him. She had written to Jon two months ago. “I am coming to Winterfell. We are coming to Winterfell. King’s Landing is coming north. By the time you have read this we should be somewhere between the Twin and the Neck. I hope you can be patient, Jon, because I know I can’t.”

The yellow fields of the Crownlands gave up to the damp fields of the Riverlands. And the closer they got to Winterfell, to the North, the less vibrant the land became. The bright sky yielded to gray clouds, and massive sprawl of green hills were instead given over to dark stretches of the earth. “Gods, the Northons must be a hard people,” Aegon had said, “to call this place home.”

It was a hard place, but she found it beautiful too. This was Jon’s home, and she couldn’t lie to herself. Some of her affections for the North came from Jon. _But not all of it._ The smell of pines in the air was unlike anything she had ever felt, and you could look for miles without seeing any touch of human life. It was a land untamed and cultured both. The North was varied. One day they went through snow glazed forests, while the next they dealt with the outskirts of swamps. Hills would roll in the horizon on one day, while the next it would just be ravenous crags for miles.

But most of all, Jon was here. She had to be honest with herself. _I want to see him. He could be on a secluded island and I’d still want to travel there for his sake._

Then there was snow. It wasn’t the winter of smallfolk tales, of snow so thick and deep you couldn’t even walk from your home. It was a sprinkling, the lightest dab of frost on the earth. But it was a sight she had never seen, not since she was a child. There was the briefest of Winters when she was young, and King’s Landing had only seen the very tip of it.

“I wonder what you will do, when you see him?" Aegon smirked at her. Her nephew’s hair was long, white and braided down his shoulder.

“I will greet him, with a smile. And I will meet his wolf.”

“He does have a beast as a pet,” Cersei had said. “It should be caged, so we can admire it from a safe reach.”

“First off, goodmother,” Aegon intervened, “they _all_ have a beast for a pet.”

“And it is not a beast,” Dany had said. “They found a liter of dire wolf pups. The symbols of their house.”

“And creatures of legend. I don’t know how you can be so…yourself. I am far more excited to meet these direwolves than anything else. It’s like a dragon! Only not as beautiful. But I’ll take my myths come alive when I can get them.”

“I take it they have all been named?” Cersei asked.

“Indeed,” Aegon answered before she could. “Jon’s is ghost, with fur as white as any of our hair, a black spot on its side the sole exception. And he has eyes as red as fire. I find it rather fitting, for a son of Targaryen and Stark to have a wolf like that.”

“Indeed. It’s like you said nephew. He is like something out of legend.”

Aegon smiled. “My dear Aunt, I wonder who you refer to. Jon or his Ghost?”

It wasn’t just the terrain that varied, but her mood as well. It all depended on which of the five wheelhouses she had found herself in, and with whom. Whenever she was packed together with Cersei, she knew the day ahead was going to be long. But whenever it was just her and of Rhaegar’s children, it was nothing but good spirits. She could not remember much of Joferion, before he was warded at Casterly Rock, but Tommen and Marcella were nothing like their mother.

There was some of her mother in Marcella, her iron wit and beauty, but Marcella had a sincere love in her heart. Dany knew it. As a young girl Marcella had clung to her leg, and Dany and Egg had managed to deter some of her mother’s influence from the golden haired daughter. “I can’t always be so sweet. Sometimes I have to be like Mother. That’s just the way of things, Aunt. You need to play the Game of Thrones sometime.”

_Not if I had a choice in it. I’d run away from it all forever. I’d run from the courts, the intrigue, all of the councils and conspiracies. Give me land to ride on, from one stretch to another. A lemon tree to lie on. And a good man at my side. With dark hair, if the Gods be good._

Tommen was the twin to Marcella, but he didn’t have any of her courtly intuition. He was sweet like an apple. And could just as easily be crushed like one. He could sing with the harp, but unlike Rhaegar his songs didn’t bring tears. He loved the songs of the people the best, despite how much the Queen had tried to deter him from it. Tommen told her that sometimes, he would go amongst the people and sing. He had heard that Rhaegar liked to do that when he was young.

_Rhaegar the Prince, not Rhaegar the King. His children only know of him from what others told them._

The days where she could be alone with Lyanna were the best. The daughter of the Bear was a stone faced beauty, and was Dany’s lady in waiting. At first the girl from Bear Island was hesitant and stubborn about what that meant, but eventually she understood why Dany had asked for her. She wanted someone from the North to tell her of the North.

And she wanted someone to keep all the suitors away. So many young men that would draw close, just so that they could pretend to be affectionate and kind. It was more embarrassing than anything else. But Lyanna just had to give one of her iron stares, and the weak men would go find other targets of pleasure.

But Lyanna was warm to her. Well, in a Northern way. Dany could talk to Lyanna about anything, and she knew Lyanna wouldn’t hold back. “The Queen will say what she wants. She’s the Queen. She is stupid like that.” Dany trusted Lya with anything, and Lya would never repeat the words.

It was such a strange thing, to have someone in King’s Landing you could trust. She knew Aegon was a good man, but he had the arrogance of the dragon. As he had the right to, being Rhaegar’s son and heir. But he didn’t need to flaunt it so much. And Myrcella? So many words that came out of her mouth had double meanings. Layers upon layers.

But Lya said as things were, she didn’t mince words, and she didn’t hide behind courtesies. Lyanna Mormont was exactly as she displayed herself to be. A daughter of the North, and Dany’s most trusted friend.

And a woman with the most scathing tongue in all of King’s Landing, which certainly had its uses.

“Stop being so nervous,” Lyanna said one day. They were alone in a wheelhouse. “You’re fidgeting.”

Dany didn’t realize she was rolling her thumbs over each other. She locked her fingers and laid them on her lap. “I wasn’t fidgeting.” Lya stared at her. “Okay I was fidgeting.” She sighed as she looked out the window. “I’m just restless.”

“You’re excited. You’re sick of travelling. You want to meet Jon.”

“You know Lya, it wouldn’t hurt for you to not be so blunt all the time.”

“Then go find some Southron to wait on all your stupid needs.”

 _Never_. _Even if that meant the Doom would come to Westeros._

It was two days after passing Castle Cerwyn that she finally laid eyes upon Winterfell. The castle was cast in stone and pelted with frost, and yet it seemed to rise up out of the earth itself. It was as if the North had birthed forth this ancestral seat. The North was Winterfell.

And Winterfell was Jon. And he was of Lyanna, the great love of her brother’s life. He had claimed her from Robert Baratheon, and the Stag swore vengeance. How different would things be today if Rhaegar had stayed his heart, had returned to his wife Elia? There would be no Jon, and she decided that was a worse fate by far.

There were the sounds of trumpets, and she heard the shouting of men. “Make way for Rhaegar! First of His Name! King and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms!” There was the sound of a massive wooden gate moving upwards, the wood creaking and the iron straining. _I am going to the place I always wanted to visit, ever since I was a little girl._ She wanted to peak, to open the window of the wheelhouse and see Winterfell in all its glory. She knew she would see it soon enough, in just a few mere moments. But impatience was gnawing at her. She squeezed the hems of her dress. _Just wait Dany. You waited all your life to go to Winterfell. A few minutes more won’t change anything._

“Are you ready?” shivered Aegon. She was paired with him and Marcella on their last day of travel. He was dressed in a bear cloak. He imagined it rather fitting. “For your introduction to the Northmen?”

“I am ready.”

Marcella’s cheeks were flushed red. Moisture dripped from her nostrils. “I just want to be warm. Winterfell has to be warm, isn’t it?”

Dany nodded. “It was built atop hot springs. You will feel the heat in the walls.”

“Good,” she said, as she clutched her fox pelt around her.

The wheelhouse came to a stop. “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.” She heard the words spoken with a slow and careful tongue. That had to be Lord Eddard, Jon’s Uncle. The Warden of the North.

“Well we should get started. Let the North meet the Dragons.” Aegon rose towards the door. “May I?’

“Just go Aegon,” Marcella said in a rush. “We all know how much you want to show yourself.” The Heir-Apparent laughed, his white teeth gleaming. He pushed the doors open and Rhaegar announced him.

“Behold my son and heir,” and there was pride in every one of Rhaegar’s words, “Aegon. Prince of Dragonstone.” Dany could hear the sound of a man kneeling, leather crinkling in the snow.

“Arise Lord Stark,” Aegon said out of view, “and let me greet you as a King would a Lord.” The she heard the clasping of gloved hands.

“My children twins, Marcella and Tommen.” Marcella mouthed _Soon_ to Dany in silence before she stepped out of the wheelhouse, clutching the pelt as tight as she could as she faced the Northern air. She heard Tommen step out of one of the wheelhouses as well. There were greetings passed, between Northborn and Southerners.

And then finally, “And my darling sister, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.” She stepped forth, one hand keeping the white fox pelt close to her neck, and the other gripping the frames of the door. She stepped out and she saw the House of Stark. There was surely Eddard, a wide wolf pelt cloak dragging on his shoulders. His beard was well trimmed, and it was a dark black color save for the incline of gray lines on his cheeks. Just behind him was a woman of older years, of dark red hair. She was a Tully through and through. Without a doubt Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell.

Then there was a man with dark red hair, and adorned in leather in pelt. Dany had to admit he was comely. He had a piercing look to him, something that demanded her attention. He put on a lordly glare then. Robb Stark, she knew it.

Further down were two girls, who must have been close in age. One had hair so red and bright, while the other had a darker brown. The red haired girl must be the Sansa that Jon had told her about. A studious daughter of Winterfell. She used to do nothing but talk of songs, but that was as a little girl. Now she spent just as many hours in the Maester’s towers as she did being a Lady of the North.

The other girl had to be her twin Arya. Jon wrote that she used to be called Arya Horseface, that she used to have gaping teeth. Dany could not believe it, or that this Arya had surely grew into her beauty. It was a harsh beauty, a look that could only be refined in the North. Her dark hair was loose, with only a scant few braids to hold it back. Dany realized that Arya was studying her just as much as Dany as looking at her. _She is a sister protecting her brother._

There was a young boy, whose hair was layers of brown. He must have been five and ten, or maybe just a year older than that. A boy on the brisk of being a man. He stood there tall, confident in every bit of the man he was becoming. His blue eyes were full of self-assurance. Ser Barristan was right behind him, and both laid their hands on the pummels of their sheathed blades. This was Bran, the youngest of the Stark children, and squire to the most famous knight in the Seven Kingdoms. _How far will you cast your shadow, Ser Bran?_

Further down she saw any man with brown hair, but his was much curlier. His face was long and clean shaven. He looked like a rogue, someone she could not trust. He was the tallest of those that led the Stark procession, and he had not an ounce of Northern blood in his veins. He was Theon, last son of Greyjoy. Jon had damned him as much as praised him in their many letters.

Then she saw a mane of inky hair, and she saw Jon. He was dressed in black, dark leather upon straps of red. _He is displaying himself as Targaryen. As Rhaegar’s son_. But across his chest were the customary Northern colors, gray and dark. The wolves of the Stark were subtly etched into his chest. Pinning his fur cloak to him were brooches of the three headed dragon. _The dragon and the wolf are fighting for you. Who is winning?_

And then he smiled, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “Jon!” she called out, not realizing her manners. She could have called him Jonaehrys. _Fuck manners. Fuck civility. Jon is here._ And he is comely, far comelier than his cousin Robb or Aegon or any of the other strong boys at the noble courts. His face was shaved smooth – something she was certain that his Lady Aunt had insisted upon. There was the slightest of disappointments, as she wondered what some hair would have look on his face. She would find out in the weeks ahead. His face was sharp, just like Rhaegar’s. But his eyes were piercing, gray like steel. _Is that your Mother looking at me now?_

He came to her, and she walked to him. One hand kept her pelt close to her, while the other held the hems of her dress high. She wished she was wearing some pants, to get to Jon all the sooner. She wrapped her arms around him and laughed. “Jon. Jonaehrys. Jon. It’s been so long.” He didn’t say anything. He just held her close.

There was a cough, and she turned to see Jamie Lannister dismounting from his horse. The Kingsguard-in-name had a bemused look on his face. She turned and saw all of the Southern court and the Stark household were staring at them. _Ten years apart, and our first meeting is embarrassing you in front of your family._ They broke apart then. She offered her gloved hand, raising her head in a noble way. He kissed her fingers, as a Prince should. Friendship broken apart by duty.

Rhaegar approached. The edge of his lips were curved. Was he smiling a moment ago? He should be outraged. He clasped Jon on the shoulder. “Lord Stark. My goodbrother.” He turned towards the Warden. “I gave unto you a boy, full of great promise. You return to me a man, every promise fulfilled. You have my gratitude.”

“Your words honor me, Your Grace,” Lord Stark said with a bowed head. Dany wondered how truthful those words were. “The Starks love the Prince like he was born in Winterfell. He is son and brother to us all.”

“And I hope in time, all the North feels the same, and extends their warmth towards the royal wings of his family. Viserys and Rhaesya could not make the journey north. Arianne Targaryen of House Martell is a Dornishwoman through and through. My noble brother would not put his lady wife through the cold temperaments of your home.”

“All is forgiven, Your Grace.” But not forgotten. The North doesn’t forget. Rhaesya’s absence was left unexplained. She never forgave Jon’s mother, for crimes that should be laid on Rhaegar. And still no mention of Jotherion, still kept at Casterly Rock.

“Your hospitality honors us even more, Lord Stark,” spoke Queen Cersei. Her green eyes glared on Jon and Dany for a moment, as if the very prospect of any happiness was an affront to her. _I’ll affront you every minute of every day that we live. From now until your soured bones are dust on the wind._ “But these two months have been tiring on us. The royal family should retire.”

“Should and shall,” Rhaegar said. He turned towards Jon. “But I would honor the mother of my son. Jon, bring me to the crypt. Let me honor your mother’s bones.” Jon nodded, and he parted from her. The tips of her fingers graced his as he left her. He looked at her for the briefest of moments before his attention was arrested by Rhaegar. The House of Stark parted from the King and his son, as one led another to the tomb of a cherished wife.

The mother of a man she adored.

 

**THE PRINCE WITH DARK HAIR**

Jon lifted the torch and made a semi-circle to face his father. Shadows danced along the walls, raced across the stone faces of dead kings and lords. A cold wind blew through the crypt. Father’s face looked beyond Jon, further down the dark and damp tunnels. Towards where he would find Mother. “I had feared we would never reach this place. This has been the longest summer Oldtower has ever recorded. I had almost forgotten what it was like to feel snow on my fingers.”

“There is always hints of winter in the North, Father.” Jon motioned for the King to follow him.

“Your Mother said as such. She wanted to show me the North, all of the crags, mountains and swamps. One of many unfulfilled promises. She never mentioned just how vast and empty the North was.”

“You can spend half a day before you find another man. The North is the largest of your territories.”

“Of _your_ territories, Jonaehrys.” Father took on a regal tone, full of power. “You shall rule it along with your brothers, in your ways. Aegon shall have the Throne, but the realm will know you as a Prince of Dragons.”

There was a brief silence as they continued their walk. “When will you summon Joferion back to King’s Landing? I heard from Dany-“

“That the Queen rages at me every day, her cold eyes looking at me with cunning intent? My sister is as observant as ever, and her Northern lady does her a great service. I congratulated her on the decision. Lyanna Mormont was a cunning choice.”

“She wrote and said as such. But she cherished Lyanna’s friendship and loyalty far more.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Every dragon needs those they can trust with all of their words. You and your bothers were born with a burden, Jon. It need not be yours alone.”

They continued in silence. They passed by the frozen gazes of men long dead, their bones turned to dust. Iron swords were once laid on their hands, but now only a red stain acts as a reminder to that funeral rite.

“Ten years ago you sent me away,” Jon said without looking back. “And you never wrote to me once. The son of the woman you loved. The Kingdoms all know you loved Mother more than all your other wives. You didn’t write to tell me that you were coming to Winterfell. It was to my Lord Uncle. You didn’t even write at all six years ago, after whatever happened at Storm’s End.” He turned towards Father. He looked into the eyes of his King. “Why?”

Father said nothing for a time. “You will understand the weight of the crown, when you are beside Aegon.”

“I am not talking of the King. I am not talking of the crown. I am speaking to my Father!”

Rhaegar looked beyond Jon, further down the crypt. “Speak softly Jonaehrys. The dead still hear. Lead on. Your King will follow.”

Jon clutched at the leather straps of the torch. He clenched at his teeth. Then he turned and led the way for King Rhaegar. They came passed by the stony remains of Brandon Stark, then his grandfather Lord Rickard Stark. And then there was the forlorn gaze of his mother, Lyanna. Her face was depicted in a shawl, with long hems of a dress overlapping her fingers. There were no swords laid upon her lap. Only dried clumps of winter roses.

Rhaegar looked in silence at Mother. “She belongs here, with the rest of her family. She always spoke of how true the North was, how the South was full of liars. I had hoped to convince her there was truth in the South too. Show her to minstrels and philosophers, let her see the grand library in Oldtown. Let her be a message for the North.”

“And what would that message be?”

Rhaegar looked to him. “Unity. No more division fueled by ignorance.”

“You speak of an end to ignorance, but you still keep me in the dark about Mother. The one you loved before all others. Father, in the view of my Mother’s bones, and my Uncle’s, and my Grandfather’s, I demand that you speak to me of Mother. Not tomorrow, not in a month. Right now. Tell me of my Mother.”

“That will be a very long telling.”

“I don’t care.”

Father sighed. “Then so be it.” He turned towards the stony visage of Mother and looked back to Jon. “What do you know of the Tourney at Harrenhal?”

“You crowned Mother with a crown of winter roses.”

“I take it that is all you know?” Jon nodded. “Alright then,” Father said with a sigh. “It was the greatest tourney the realm has seen in my lifetime. It lasted for ten days, and Lord Walter Whent offered the greatest prizes. Knights and Lords from across the Kingdoms came to the Riverlands. None could deny its lure. But Lord Walter Whent did not have anywhere close to the funds for the Tourney. Others supplied the coin from the shadows.”

“Who?”

“You are speaking to one of the conspirators. The other was Lord Tywin Lannister.”

_Father and the Lannisters? Is that why he married Cersei? Out of some kind of debt?_

“Why? What was the reasoning?”

“To bring as many Lords as possible under one roof. I needed to speak to as many Lords as I could, to convene a council to remove my Father from the Throne. The realm was bleeding already from my Father’s madness. The writing was on the wall. I had to act. And I was not alone. The Lannisters were beside me, as were the Martells, and the Daynes. All Houses of paramount influence to be sure.”

“But you needed more.” Jon’s eyes narrowed. “One does not usurp a King, even a Mad One, with just Lannister gold and Dornish spears.”

Father nodded. “I had other Lords behind me. The Conningtons, led by Lord Jon, the Mootons of Maiden Pool, and the Lonmouths. All valuable, but not Great Houses. Not Paramount Lords, as Tywin had put it. I also had several of the Kingsguard at my back. Prince Lewyn Martell was the Uncle to my Lady Wife Elia, and it was by blood that he supported me. But Arthur Dayne was my closest friend. He was the first to rally to my conspiracy, before even Tywin.

“But some Kingsguard, High Lords and a few Great Houses are still not enough. Thus, Harrenhal. Something so great that no Lord, high or low, could ignore. The entire realm, congested in such a small space and time. A shield for my subterfuge. The Lords will joust by day, while by night I would petition them. However, I remained ignorant to another conspiracy, one that would also use Harrenhal to meet and join other Lords to their cause.

“It was your Mother who revealed it to me.”

“Mother?” Jon looked agape at Father. _My Mother? The Mother who was half a horse? Who would beat my Uncles away with sticks? She was involved in a conspiracy? No,_ Jon thought stubbornly, _my Mother was no traitor._ “How?”

Rhaegar smiled and motioned towards the statue that stood vigil over Mother’s bones. “Jonaehrys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, I present to you the Knight of the Laughing Tree. The mystery knight that humiliated minor Lord after minor Lord, refusing all payment, only demanding that they teach their squires honor. A knight that earned my Father’s fury like no other and demanded I unmask and bring before the Iron Throne. That is how I found your Mother, as she was dismantling her armor beneath a tree far from the Tourney’s grounds. And we exchanged secrets.”

“I never knew Mother could joust. I knew she could ride. But to joust is a talent reserved for knights and lords. Did my Grandfather allow her to be taught?” Rhaegar’s expression expressed doubts. “So how?”

Rhaegar shrugged. “The Lords she charged against were of low skill and lower repute. Perhaps she just seized the advantage. I honestly didn’t pay much mind to the jousting. I was concocting a conspiracy. But under that tree, I swore not to tell my Father who she was. I admired the woman, but there was no lust in me then. I swear upon that Jon.” Father’s face took on a hard tone. _He is being honest here. No mistruths. It was not love at first sight. It was not a song._ “ I did not demand what she told me next. I didn’t even know such a conspiracy existed. I never did get your Mother to tell me why. Perhaps she was smitten with me, or maybe she felt compelled to exchange one honorable act for another. Maybe it was both. I cannot say.

“But she revealed to me an…” Father stopped for a moment. He rubbed at his chin. “An Alliance of Southron Ambitions. The Houses of Stark, Baratheon, Tully and Arryn had aligned together. They were conspiring to put Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne, to remove myself and Viserys away from the path of succession.”

“Was Robert always the fool? He had no claim to your throne. He was heir to Storm’s End, not to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I thought the same. I thought Lyanna Stark was mistaken, or that I had misheard. But the Houses of Stark, Tully, Baratheon and Arryn were joined. In the War of the Ninepenny Kings, the whole of Westeros was united.” Father held up a fist. “One common goal, one common enemy. The Seven Kingdoms truly united whole against the last of the Blackfyre Pretenders. Many friendships were made, vows of brotherhood sworn. Such as that between Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully. And they began to betroth to each other after the dusts of that war had settled.”

“That doesn’t mean anything Father. Unusual, yes, but not proof of a conspiracy.”

“How often do Great Lord pollinate with each other? You could ask that question a thousand times, and the answer will always be “never” for all but the thousandth. They marry their cousins, or their banner-men. Never with each other. Except for when they want alliances. Brandon Stark was betrothed to Catelyn Tully. Robert Baratheon to Lyanna Stark. And Jon Arryn warded both your uncle Eddard and Robert. Four Great Houses, all being bound in the marriage bed or with fatherly affections.

“Go ask your Uncle of his time in the Vale with Robert and Jon Arryn. And he will respond with warmness in his heart, I am certain of it. Jon Arryn was the greatest of all the conspirators. No doubt he made use Robert’s void of a father after Steffon Baratheon drowned at sea. You could ask your Uncle of Jon Arryn, but I would not believe any word of it. The Lord of the Vale is too close to your Uncle’s heart.

“And there was Targaryen blood in Robert’s hot veins. Rhaelle Targaryen was the youngest child of Aegon the Fifth. Through his grandmother, Robert had a link to the Iron Throne. He was already third in line, after myself and your Uncle Viserys.”

“So they needed support, just as much as you did.” Father nodded. “You probably petitioned some of them already.” He hummed in agreement. “And when you summoned your Council, they would have divided the loyalties. They would outnumber you, and Robert would have gotten the Throne.”

“And the Alliance would have earned much for this conspiracy. I have no doubt that Jon Arryn would have been named Hand of the King. He certainly would fit well in the seat. The Starks would finally have their Northern princess, promised to them in the Pact of Ice and Fire during the Dance. If they would not get it through loyalty, they would get it by their own hands. And the Tullys would rise high in their association with the other Houses.”

“But that doesn’t explain how Mother knew. If what you say is true, if Grandfather had become a traitor, he would only share this with people he trusted utmost. His son and heir, Brandon. He wouldn’t tell Mother. Even if he did care for her.” _If he cared for her at all._

“A reasonable deduction. I doubt even your uncle Eddard knewI imagine your Uncle Brandon brought him to Harrenhal under the pretext of showing his brother the wider world. Let a son of Stark see beyond the North. But the truth would be to begin talks of wedding him to Ashara Dayne, I imagine. Their affections were well known, almost as much as my love for your Mother. And such a marriage would steal one of my strongest supporters to my claim. But your Mother discovered this on her own. She overheard your uncle Brandon speaking with Lord Arryn, far from the grounds of Harrenhal. And the truth was laid bare.”

“You say you didn’t love her then.” Father nodded. “So why crown her, as the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

Father smiled. “It was a declaration. Brandon was right next to her, as was Jon Arryn. The only two members of this conspiracy present. I looked at Lyanna, and they knew. With that crowning I said ‘Tread carefully My Lords’. And that is why no Council was called. Because your Mother laid an even greater Conspiracy at my feet.”

_That may have been a mistake. The Kingdoms saw it as you dishonoring your wife Elia, of stealing Robert’s betrothal from him._

“And then you and Mother vanished. And that was the beginning of the Rebellion.”

“Yes, that did happen a few months later. But I didn’t snatch her away, nor did your Mother escape with me into the night. It wasn’t a rape, as some would say, nor was it two wayward souls running into the night. It was a rescue.”

“From who? What could you possibly rescue her from? The Starks would never turn on their own.”

“From _my_ Father. He discovered the truth of the mystery knight’s identity, and he acted. He prepared to send men clasped in gold after her, while your brother Aegon was being born in Dragonstone. Viserys told me. I think he sensed the writing on the wall, the Master of Whispers knowing when enough was enough.”

“So that is why you kept him, even after he had advised the Mad King for so long.”

Father nodded. “Indeed. A life for a life. And the Eunuch has been loyal to me, in his ways. I summoned Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent, both capable members of the Kingsguard.”

“And you trust Ser Dayne beyond all else.”

“Indeed. Do not tell your Uncle Viserys this, but Arthur is more of a brother to me than the one my mother brought into the world. With Dayne and Whent at my side we travelled southwards. We found Lyanna’s party, absent her family and any member of the Southron Ambitions. I told her the truth of it. She didn’t believe me until my Father’s men struck. When I was clean she thought me a liar, but when I was covered in gore she had to accept the truth. Your Mother always favored actions over words.”

“But somehow word had spread of…the abduction.”

“Indeed. And that is what brought Brandon and Rickard Stark to King’s Landing. They did not deserve that, even in wishing to overthrow me. No man deserved what my father did to them.”

“Brandon demanded to duel you, but you didn’t not accept because you were a coward. You didn’t accept because you were hiding.” Father nodded. “And that is why Mother said nothing to her family, why no letters were flown to Winterfell or Storm’s Reach. Because that put her at risk of revealing where you two were.”

“Your Mother’s cunning is showing. But tell me. Why did my father call for your Uncle’s head, as well as Robert’s?”

 _“_ He must have known, discovered of the conspiracy. To make Robert king.”

“I believe so as well. My father allowed his madness to pass away when he needed cunning far more than his ravings. So we ran, away from the eyes of my father, away from the war cries of the realm. We could not go to King’s Landing, for obvious reasons. We could not turn to Winterfell or Storm’s Reach or the Vale. None were safe from assassins. I’m sure a few Faceless Men would have gladly accepted Targaryen coin. So we went to the only place I knew to be safe.

“We went to Summerhall, the place where I was born. Where Aegon the Fifth and Ser Duncan the Tall died in fire. Where dragons could have returned to the world, if only Aegon was a little bit more shrewd. And where you would be conceived. The madness of the situation created something between your Mother and I. We didn’t love each other when this had begun. But we did by the time we reached Summerhall. I sang her a beautiful song. And then we made you, in the ruins of that ancient manse. It was the not last time we would lay with each other, but I would like to think it to be true. Allow your King a small bit of romanticism.

“Afterwards we set off, for Dorne. Towards the Tower of Joy. Your Mother wanted us to be wed. I could not promise her that. There were no Weirwoods for leagues. I knew I had to return to battle. The realm was burning around me. There was no time for a Septon. I left your Mother at the Tower.”

“So…am I a bastard? You were not wed under the Seven. No weirwood saw your union. What right for me to call you Father? To be named Prince?”

Father cupped Jon’s face, and he stared into the eyes of his son. “By rights of love. You were conceived in love. You were wanted and desired. Never think any less of yourself for this. I claimed you as my son the moment I saw you, bloody and screaming. Do not think, for a moment, that I do not care for you. You, who are the blood of the Dragon.

“And also because I am the King. I alone say which of my children have my name, and I named you Jonaehrys Targaryen.”

_If only my Grandfather has no ambition, the realm would not have burned. Mother would be alive, wed to Robert Baratheon. I would have no existence. I would not know Dany, and her life would be a harder one. But would it be worth all of the death and pain?_

Jon looked into his Father’s eyes. _I will make it worth it._

“Are there more secrets? More conspiracies to unmask?”

“No,” Father said. “Your Mother died due to childbirth. Nothing less, nothing more. Everything else is precisely as the Maesters have put it.”

“Except why not come forth? Why not reveal the conspiracy? The realm would have thought more of you.”

“Because it would have sundered the realm. The name of Stark, Tully, Baratheon and Arryn would have been reduced. I wanted the realm to heal, to be restored. Your Uncle was innocent, and the guilty parties were killed by my Father. Hoster Tully earned nothing from his actions. The Baratheons were reduced to a single child, too young to understand what was going on except that his oldest brother was dead and the other had fled across the Narrow Sea. And as for Jon Arryn? He has lost everything. He is alone, isolated and abandoned. He will die with nothing, especially if his son by Lyssa Tully is as sickly as I have heard. And I had lost my Father, Mother, the Wife that gave me my first two children, and the love of my heart that gave me you. It was not the time for vengeance. We had all lost in the war.”

_But it would have healed your family. Nobody would look on me and say, ‘That was the seed of lust’. Nobody would look on Dany or Viserys and think them brother and sister to a King that could not control himself. From the beginning you were trying to serve the realm. Rhaesya would not think of Mother as someone that seduced you and took you away from your Queen. The Kingdoms have the right to know. Your entire family deserves to know._

Father turned from the grave, his back towards Rickard and Brandon Stark. “The realm is still hurting. I thought I could heal this realm. Make concessions. But the North distrusts the South. Dorne still hates me for allowing Elia to be killed by my father. The Reach judges all the other realms as traitors, and nobody trusts Casterly Rock after they were the last kingdom to join in the Rebellion. I did not come here just for you Jon. I came here to begin the forging of a chain that will bind the Seven Kingdoms together. Forever. It begins today with you. With this revelation.”

“Why not sooner? It took you twenty years to reveal this to me. I had the right to know, much sooner than this. I thought that I was the fruit of a man that could not control himself. I didn’t know I was the son of….” He looked for the word. What did he see before him? “A King,” he said.

 “Words failed me. The distances made it easier to put the task aside. I needed to speak of this right with you. Not to mince words. Not to misjudge the past. I had to tell it to you with as much honesty as any man could. And I needed the years. Do I have your forgiveness Jon?”

He nodded. “Yes Father. Now and always.”

Father sighed. “I want to retire Jon. Your King is weary. It was a long road. Show me out from the realm of the dead. I’d rather tend to the living.”

 

**A GIRL OF SONGS**

_She was surrounded by trees, their bark as dark as night and they rose so tall she could not see any sunlight. The forest stretched for leagues around her. A gray fog permeated everything.  She knew not this place. This wasn’t Winterfell. This wasn’t the North. The First Men never claimed this place. She could not smell the scent of pine carried on the flurry of wind._

_It was a distant place. It was not home._

_Then there was the sound of a river, running faster and coarser. It rose up, and suddenly she saw the trees were consumed by water. The wave swallowed all sound. And it came for her._

“Sansa!” Sansa woke up, half a breath coming from her mouth. Lady stirred on her lap. Sansa murmured an apology, and Lady’s ears twitched.

“What is it Arya?” They were in the godswood. She and Lady had come here after they had broken fast. Every day since the King had arrived there was a massive meal, morning and night. Today there was hot bread, with butter and honey for flavor, bacon and an egg to wash it down with. Across it all were dotted blueberries for sweetness and to nourish the stomach. Usually Jon and Princess Daenerys – Dany – were sited next to each other. The Princess had insisted that she be called such. But today Jon was next to his brother Aegon, and both seemed to be in good spirits. Jon had smiled at some Jest from the Prince, although it seemed Aegon was doing all the talking.

And Dany was next to her brother the King, taking the place of the Queen. She was on the other end of the table, and her green eyes were seething with a cold fury. King Rhaegar spoke to his sister in hushed tones, and by the end of it the Princess seemed to be speaking in a soft voice as well.

Even in the North, the Dragon always seemed to be thinking. Wheels within wheels.

“The Princess,” Arya answered, and Sansa saw Dany approach. She shooed Lady off of her, and the wolf pup obliged. The Princess was dressed in black, the colors of Targaryen. A large white fox pelt was wrapped around her shoulders and neck. Her cheeks were still flushed despite the warmth. When Sansa first saw her, the Princesses’ hair was heavily braided in the Southron styles. But now Dany’s hair was loose, with only a light braid running down to keep it all together. It was as if she was trying to accept the North. Or have the Northmen accept her.

Sansa rose and curtsied. “Princess.”

The Targaryen smiled. “Lady Sansa. Arya said I would find you here.”

“Here or in the Maester’s tower,” Arysa said. Nymeria walked beside her, tongue wagging.

“I see nothing wrong with that. I always used to drag Jon to the Grand Maester’s lessons.”

“I heard,” Sansa said, “that you once almost got yourself crushed because you tried to reach for a book.”

The Princess scrunched her face. “That did not happen.”

Arya laughed. “Jon also said you would deny it.” Sans suppressed a giggle. She felt Lady’s tail against the back of her legs. Dany bent down and looked to Lady. She clicked her tongue and extended her palm but Lady stayed behind Sansa’s leg. “Nymeria is the same, Dany. Our pups only seem to like us or each other.”

Dany frowned in disappointment. “It seems only Jon’s Ghost has warmed to me.”

“You should at least call her _Princess_ Dany, Arya,” Sansa chided.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Dany said as she rose to her feet. “I’ll be under your Lord Father’s roof for a month now, and maybe even two.”

“Two?” Sansa raised her brow.

“My brother has been talking of visiting the Wall.”

“What’s at the Wall? For a King, I mean.” Arya stepped forward.

“I don’t know. But if he does go, it will be another month that I will be here. I don’t want you to spend a month tying your tongues with all these courtesies.”

_If your brother wasn’t talking to you about the Wall this morn, then what gave you pause? He didn’t tell you of what he was maybe going to do. He gave you something definite, I’m certain of it. What aren’t you saying, Princess?_

For the past few days, Daenerys had seemed to keep a respectable distance from Sansa and Arya. She seemed more intent on following Jon, which didn’t surprise Sansa in the least. If she had lost Robb or Bran for ten years, and she had only a month to reconnect, she would make for that lost time in earnest. Something was twisting in her gut. _The Princess knows something._

“You will need to do all the courtesies tomorrow,” Princess Dany said. “You’ll be in the Queen’s constant presence then.”

“If looks could kill,” Arya crossed her arms, “all of us Starks would be dead by her glare.”

The Princess smiled. “You wouldn’t be wrong. All of the Northern lords will be here. Reluctantly I know.”

“Princess, I am certain many of my Father’s men are thrilled to speak with you.”

“Sansa, please, let’s not lie pleasantly with each other. The North hasn’t forgotten how Rhaegar beat you on the Trident. But, I hope there will be peace.”

“From who?” asked Arya. “From Father’s men or from the Queen?”

“Both,” Dany laughed. “But especially from the Queen.”

“Is she really that bad?” The skepticism was clear in Arya’s tone. “I heard some of what Jon said, but I don’t know how anyone can be that mean.”

The Targaryen Princess shrugged. “She said on the trip over that your pups should be muzzled and caged.” Nymeria growled.

“Then they should call her the Queen Bitch,” Arya said behind grated teeth.

“Arya! She is still the Queen.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it Sansa. Aegon and I consider her far worse when she isn’t looking. The Queen is a terrible woman. My brother went from a woman he loved to a woman he dreaded. I won’t accept such a fate.”

“Princess, there is always a chance-“

“No.” And there was an amethyst fire in Dany’s eyes. “I will never suffer that. I learned that from my brother.”

 _I don’t know you, but Jon loves you. For that sake, I hope you are right._ Arya broke the silence. “So where is Jon? For the past few days you were always close.”

“I couldn’t keep him from Aegon for long. Aegon is Jon’s brother, after all. They went out riding today. He probably protested a little, but that nephew of mine is a king through and through. He probably had Prince Lewyn and Ser Oswell carry Jon to the stables by his legs and arms.”

“I’m sure he didn’t protest that much,” Sansa said.

“Oh, maybe not. But he never was the rider. I was. I rode the horses and learned from books, while he always chased Aegon around with his swords.”

“Arya is the same,” Sansa said. “She can ride better than the rest of us. Even more than Robb. She is half-horse herself.”

The Princess looked to Arya. “My brother said the same of your aunt. Her being half-horse. Maybe you took her beauty too.”

“I’d rather just take her horse-riding. I don’t want to have to beat another stupid lordling away with sticks.” _There’s nothing wrong with being beautiful, Arya. Father always compares you to Aunt Lyanna, and her beauty made Rhaegar incite a rebellion. Be a little prideful._

“Well, why don’t we go riding? I want to see the hills and forests of Winterfell. I could meet you by the stables in an hour’s time.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Sansa said. “And I know Arya wants to get on a horse. We’ll meet you there in an hour, Princess.”

“In an hour then. I wonder who is more horse, me or Arya?” She smiled before she walked away, Nymeria and Lady looking on.

“I’ll see you at the stables then,” Arya said as she turned.

“No you won’t. We need to talk.”

“About what? I didn’t say anything. Dany doesn’t mind if I don’t call her ‘Princess’ or ‘Your Regal Majesty’, or any of those other –“

“I’m not yelling. Just stop trying to get out of trouble that you’re not in and listen to me.”

Arya crossed her arms and approached. They were both under the shade of the weirwood. _Maybe that will make the words come easier. The thousand eyes of the Old Gods are on us._

“The King is not here to visit Jon.”

“What? Of course he is. He said so in the letter Father got. Dany said the same thing.”

“How much time has Jon spent with his father?”

“They were in the crypts for like an hour!”

“And then?” Arya didn’t say anything as she thought on it. When she frowned, Sansa knew she couldn’t come to an answer. “Jon has barely seen his father. He’s been distracted by the Princess and Prince Aegon.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Think. Why would the King bring his wife, and all of his children – with the exception of Princess Rhaesya and Prince Jotherion – if this was just a simple visit?”

“To get Jon to-to know the rest of his family.” Arya was grasping for straws.

Sansa shook her head. “Did you notice the Princess and King Rhaegar when we broke fast?”

“No. I was too busy trying to avoid the Queen.”

“Well I’ll tell you. One moment the Princess was smiling, ear-to-ear. Then the next she was quiet and solemn, and all the while the King was whispering something into her ear. And it wasn’t about the Wall, I can promise you that much.”

“So what do you think it was then?”

“Well, the one thing that he would want to announce in front of both most of the royal family, our family, and the lords of the North. The announcement of a betrothal.”

“You don’t think-“

“Jon with either of us. It might be you. Everyone says how you are just like Aunt Lyanna.”

“But I don’t want to marry Jon! He’s our brother.”

“I feel the same. Which is why we need to give the King a better idea.” Arya didn’t say anything. She was waiting. “Jon and the Princess.”

“Sansa, I thought you stopped listening to those stupid songs. The King isn’t going to marry two people out of love.”

“I know that. Look, what would he get out of marrying Jon to one of us?”

Arya sighed as she twiddled her fingers. “A symbol of unity between the north and south. Jon is part Targaryen, we are Stark.”

“Yes, except Jon is not the heir. Aegon is. Jon would be a poor choice. Do you remember what the Pact was?” Arya shook her head. “The Starks were promised a Targaryen bride during the Dance. They never got it.”

“Okay, so Jon shouldn’t wed us then. We don’t want it, and the North doesn’t want it. But why would Father’s men want Dany instead?”

“Because,” and Sansa leaned in close, “the Princess is all Targaryen. Jon has some of the wolf inside of him. He won’t be the heir. Instead he will be a symbol of unity. Their family would have ties to both houses. Jon would instill some of the North in his children –“

“-and Dany would do the same. Their children will see both sides of the same coin.” _You’re getting it Arya. You’re not so half witted when you think._ “If the South has any issues, they’ll go to Jon and Dany.”

“And the same goes if the North has any grievances with the South. Especially with the Iron Throne. There won’t be a repeat of what happened with grandfather.”

“That’s a good idea. A really good idea. But it sounds nice when it’s just the two of us. How do we persuade the King?”

“I’m the one doing the persuasion. Arya I love you, but you don’t know how to approach a King.”

“And you do?”

“No. But I have an idea on how I can do it. Rhaegar loved Aunt Lyanna. Aunt Lyanna was a Northern woman, through and through. I will act as such. I will put forth the proposal, I won’t hide behind pretty words. I will argue my case. I will act as befitting a _Northern_ Lady. That may appeal to the King.”

“Or blow in his face.”

“Do you have another idea?”

Arya shook her head. “Not really. But why are you telling me all this? I’m not doing anything.”

Sansa shrugged. “You’re my sister. If I’m going to do something stupid, you should know.”

Nymeria whined. “I wish you were nicer to me sooner.”

“I know.” Sansa wrapped her arms around Arya, and she did the same. “It took me for someone telling me how stupid I was for me to realize it. I’m sorry for that.”

“I forgive you Sansa. You’re still a giant pig head though. If this doesn’t work, I’ll whisk you away across the sea. I hear Braavos is pretty nice.”

“Braavos?” She broke from the embrace. “I hear Braavos is almost as hot as Dorne! Why would you send me there?”

Arya shrugged. “I heard it was a nice place! It’s the only Free City that doesn’t have slaves. And they have Dancing Masters. They teach boys and girls how to fight. That has to count for something.”

There was something about that statement that seemed ridicules to Sansa. Maybe it was the absurdity of their conspiracy. Or maybe it was because Arya was going to smuggle Sansa to Braavos. Sansa laughed, and Arya joined in. The two of them were laughing, and Sansa felt some tears well up in her eyes. She just couldn’t stop.

“So,” Arya said between gasps, “we need to go to the stables.”

“Yes. But tomorrow you need to keep an eye on the King. I need to know where I can find him. I’m not going to just wander around Winterfell.”

“We can do that.” Arya looked down at Nymeria. “You just do your thing and say the right words. To make sure we don’t have to end up marrying Jon.

“But first, we need to ride with Dany.”

They parted ways. Sansa returned to her chambers with Lady close on her heels. She discarded her dress for one that was meant to be rode with. She flung onto her back a hooded cloak stitched with fur, to keep her warm. She slipped on and laced a pair of riding boots, stitched from a dark and red leather.

She had found Arya in similar attire, and they made their ways to the stables together. They passed by Walder, the great grandson of Old Nan. He was the tallest man in all of Westeros, but he was also the kindest. Sansa remembered how he would put her and Arya on his shoulders and spin and spin until they were all dizzy.

“The Princess said they would be waiting for you. I already got your palfeys ready!”

“Thank you Walder,” Arya said.

They found the Princess aside a gray horse, and she wore a short red dress. The dress was cut and short layer at the side, and Sansa could see that she was wearing trousers beneath. Her silvery hair was tied into a ponytail. She turned towards them and guided the horse towards them, pulling with the rein. Arya and Sansa found their horses soon after, and they followed the Princess out of the gates. They led the way, through the fields and within view of the stone walls.

Daenerys gained her confidence in short time, and she sped ahead of them. Arya yelled out a challenge, and dark and white hair whipped and flopped from the wind. Sansa kept pace, but far enough to not get dirt thrown into her. She just wanted to think up of a plan. _This is a woman’s war,_ she realized. _Negotiating marriage vows._

She lost the race, but she wasn’t even in it to begin with.

Sansa found herself waking early the next day. The sky was a soft red as the sun dawned over the dark hills of Winterfell. Red was one of the colors of House Targaryen. _Am I going to bring the dragon’s wrath upon my house?_ She felt a chill and pulled the fur close to her.

There was a knocking on her door, and Lady rose up, her ears perked. “Sansa?” came the hoarse whispers of Arya. She rose from the bed, throwing furs off of her, Lady scampering to the floor. She opened her door and Arya poked her head in. “I didn’t need to do much following. We’re riding with the King today.”

“We? Who is we? And how did you know?”

“I overheard Ser Barristan speaking with another of the Kingsguard. Ser Whent, I think. They didn’t expect a girl to be just out of their sight. It wasn’t hard. The King will like Father to show him the country. We’ll all be going.”

“That makes things easier and harder. How am I supposed to approach him with Father right next to him?”

“I don’t know Sansa.”

Sansa sighed. “Thank you Arya. Go back to bed. I’ll see you when we break the fast.”

She closed the door, and laid her back against it. She looked to Lady. “What am I supposed to do?” The pup tilted her head in reply.

They were served bread and black berry jelly, cooked egg that was salted and spiced and was eaten with a spoon, rashes of bacon and a wedge of cheese. Jon was seated beside Princess Dany and Prince Aegon. The voice of the Prince was loud, and he did not mind speaking with bits of food in his mouth. He had his arm around Jon’s shoulder. There was a small smile on Jon’s face, while the Princess was just being cordial. She always had one eye on Jon.

The other eye was on the King. The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms was seated next to Queen Cersei, as well as Mother and Father. Few words were shared it seemed. The King did not speak often in the presence of his wife. There was a false smile on Mother’s lips, all cordial with no warmth behind it. The Queen replied with one just as fake. Father was stuck between them. She imagined the Trident was easier than the battle he was facing now.

The King rose from his seat, and the dining hall hushed. “Today I spoke with Lord Stark, and before the arrival of his loyal and noble lords, I would very much like to see a tour of his lands. Of Stark lands. Today, the houses Targaryen and Stark shall ride together, toured by Lord and Lady Stark.”

“Told you,” Arya whispered. Then came the soft applause. She noticed the Princess softly laying her fingers on Jon’s hand, while she whispered something into his ear. He smiled. Aegon said something, and both Jon and the Princess laughed. The Prince of Dragonstone was always sure of himself. _He is the heir. He should have confidence._

She never saw that with the King’s fourth son, Tommen. The few times she had seen him, the boy always seemed to speak in soft and careful tones. How much of that was his mother’s dominating influence, and how much was the notion he was the least of all his father’s children?

They had set out a few hours later. A retinue of Stark and Targaryen, hounded over by the Kingsguard and Stark soldiers. The banners of the three-headed dragon and the wolf were flown above them. Father and the King led the party, too far off for Sansa to make much notice off. Jon rode beside Tommen and Marcella. But unlike all his interactions with Aegon, which all appeared to be genuine, Sansa couldn’t help but feel that Jon was uncomfortable. He didn’t know his siblings from the Queen. They were strangers to him, bounded by blood. Ghost kept a good pace behind them.

“Jon seems to be doing well,” Robb said as he rode beside her.  Grey Wind was not far from him. “He is always beside one of his brothers or sister.”

“When he is with Prince Aegon I would agree. But look to him now, aside Marcella and Tommen. How real does that look?”

“He’s talking, and there’s no look of gloom on him. That’s real enough for now. Maybe affections will come later.”

They rode on, the retinue passing under the frozen gaze of the forest. Winter is coming were the Stark words, and winter’s approach was slow and methodical. The dark green grass still yet rose above the gray snow, and the leaves of the forests were more green than white. Sansa had never seen winter before a few months back, when Father and the others had returned from an execution with the pups. This was the longest summer in recorded history. More than ten years of summer. It had followed the harsh winter that marked Robert’s Failed Rebellion.

Bran was out of sight. More likely he was riding with his Ser, Barristan Selmy. Her brother was riding with the Kingsguard. _Gods, he is growing fast_ , she realized. When it was just Ser Barristan in Winterfell, it was easy to get used to him. Away from that prestigious knighthood. But now that it was Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, along with Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan, and even the Kingslayer himself, she had to face it. Bran was riding with some of the greatest knights in the land. He was being trained and tutored by one of the most revered.

Jon would be returning south. With a betrothal to the Princess, if Sansa spoke true. Robb will be rising to Lord of Winterfell soon enough. His interactions with Prince Aegon will surely plant the seeds of friendship between the two. The sons of Winterfell were growing, higher and taller.

But what of Arya and herself? They would be rooted within Winterfell, for a time. Sansa knew what a lady’s duties were – to honor her husband, to bear his children, and to control his household. Arya wanted to be Queen Nymeria born again, but that was all a fantasy.

Father would consider his options, do his best by them both. He would speak with his liege lords, and he would announce a betrothal. It would take no longer than a year, two if the process was slow and cumbersome. She would have no say in it. That was a father’s duty, not a daughter’s burden. Mother had no say in her marriage to Father, but Father was a good man. He stayed honorable and true to his wife, and he admired her. Mother was fortunate. Queen Rhaella was married to King Aerys the Second, and he beat her and molested her. Most girls were not as fortunate as Mother.

She saw the banner of the dragon flying in the distance. Opportunity was right in her face.

After an hour they stopped. They dismounted, and the servants and cooks set to work on arranging food. Small canopies were raised for shade. Across the tables were set beef and bacon pie, onions that were soaked in gravy for flavor, and rich and creamy baked apples.  Servants walked with flagons of apple mead to fill up the cups.

The King was far off under shade of his tent, and he was mingling in talk with his wife, Ser Arthur Dayne and the Lord Commander. Father and Mother were not close. They were speaking with each other, Father’s fingers entwined with hers, as he bit into the cinnamon of the apple.

She was not close enough to hear the King or Queen, but he said something that forced her from her seat. She spat something vicious and walked off, her chin raised up high. Sansa made her way for the king’s tent. She curtsied as she approached the shade. “Hail, Your Grace.”

“Hail, Lady Sansa. Would you come dine with my Kingsguard and I? The food of you Northmen does you much credit. I fear by the time I return to the capitol I shall be Aegon the Fourth come again.”

“None shall ever grant the title of “Unworthy” unto you, Your Grace. Even the smallfolk call you “the Dragon.”

The King bit into the apple. Bronze juices flowed down his chin. “Why have you come here, Sansa Stark?” Violet eyes narrowed on her.

“I would speak to you in privacy, if it would please you.”

“It does not.” He took a napkin and wiped his lips cleans. “It does intrigue me however. Ser Gerold, leave give us peace.”

The Lord Commander bowed. “As you say, Your Grace.” He left the shade of the tent.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn towards Ser Arthur Dayne. The sword of the morning. One of King Rhaegar’s most trusted companions. Father said he was glad he had never met Ser Dayne on the field of battle – or else Mother would need to adjust to a widow’s life.

“Speak your words, Sansa Stark,” Ser Arthur spoke in a cool and slow tone. “You have the King’s ears.”

“Do not wed Jon to the Starks, Your Grace.” The King and Ser Arthur shared a glance. “It would be a mistake to assume that marriage would represent the unity you desire. He is not the heir. It would be shown as a backhanded insult.”

“And what makes you think that I am here to negotiate a match for my son?”

Sansa gestured behind her, towards the bustle of servants delivering food towards the Starks and Targaryen households. “You have brought forth the near entirety of your family. Your Queen, your son and heir. Most of your court has ridden for nearly two months to Winterfell. This is no simple visit. These are witnesses to a betrothal.

“But it must not be between Jon and myself or Arya. You have a much better match for him, albeit out of your current view.”

“And whom would this be?”

“Your sister. The love they hold for each other is irrelevant. Princess Daenerys is pure Targaryen, born of the blood of brother and sister. While Prince Jon is the union of dragon and wolf. My cousin is a northern soul, Your Grace. His heart holds the northern virtues well. Princess Daenerys is the same, except she is inclined towards the realm of Aegon the Conqueror. Let their union be a House that understands the North and the South, that can act as a link between them. The Rebellion was brought about because of a destruction in communication. Each side fell to suspicions and mistrust. And no region is more misunderstood than my home.

“A family of both, of wolf and dragon, could act as ambassadors for the realm. They would be a chain of respect that would truly tie the North to the South, and allow the South to understand their Northern brothers.”

“She is very astute Rhaegar,” the Kingsguard said. “For someone so young and fair.”

“So if I am to wed my son to my sister, what shall I do about another union? I would still need one that would signify, with action, that the South wishes to embrace the North. Whom shall I give instead?”

She raised her head. “Give me unto your son. I am a woman flowered, full of Northern beauty and temperament. I have not learned the courts of King’s Landing, but that can all come in time. And I am the daughter of the Lord of the North. On behalf of his mother, Prince Jacaerys promised Cregan Stark a Targaryen bride. Let the Pact be fulfilled with a Northern bride to a Targaryen prince. Have me be wed to Aegon. Let me be the union between North and South. With these two unions, you will unite the Seven Kingdoms for a hundred years.”

“She is astute, Arthur.” The King was looking towards his friend. “Especially for someone who foresaw my plans before I could unveil them.” He turned towards Sansa. “You captured my curiosity, Lady Stark. Now you have my respect. You made only one mistake. I did come up here to arrange a pairing for my son, but it was for Aegon, not Jonaehrys. For Jon it was always going to be Daenerys from the start, for the very reasons you have outlined. I came here to discuss with your Lord Father who to wed to my son Aegon. For the very reasons you have just unveiled.

“Tell me, does Lord Eddard have any reason to deny such a proposal?”

“No, My King. He is of the North. And the North has always wanted that which was promised.”

The King raised a goblet, cider spilling from its lip. “Arthur, behold. The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

**THE STORMBORN**

He had said to her, “Follow me,” just as the caravan was breaking for camp. Ghost was sitting beside him. “You should see this.” He didn’t specify what he was referring to, but Dany was intrigued all the less. Lyanna had overheard and was already trotting towards them. Jon led them to the edge of the forest. “Straight ahead,” he pointed. Go towards where the trees break. You’ll find it.”

“Are we not to follow you?”

Jon smiled. “No Dany. You’re going to chase.” Then he whipped his reins and he charged into the forest. Ghost turned on his feels and followed his master into the woods.

“Jon!” she yelled. “Jon!” _He only cheated because he knew I’d beat him otherwise._ She gave chase. She heard Lya huff as she cracked the reins of her mount to do the same.

The hooves bit through the snow, upturning stone and grass. “Jon!” she called out to him as he galloped through the trees. “Jon!” She was laughing, a wide grin on her face. She huffed as she cracked at her reins. Her wind was being blown behind her. Silvery strands pelted at her face. This is why she always tied her hair before she rode. She swatted the strands away, breathing and laughing as she did so.

She swerved around the trees, hoping to catch up to Jon. But she wasn’t riding as hard or as fast as she could. She still didn’t know just where they were going. These were Jon’s woods, his home, the place he knew off the back of his hand. She was just a guest, following her host.

Then the trees parted, the forest came to an end, and Jon slowed and came to a stop. He was standing over a cliff, thin bushels of grass being swayed in the wind. She approached and she saw what Jon was looking at. Below them were the dark green hills that surrounded Winterfell, tumbling and rolling against each other. She saw the pine trees swerve as the wind pushed against them, the green and white cascading against each other. She saw in the distance ancient fortresses, abandoned ruins that stood resilient and stubborn. The mark of the First Men.

Jon didn’t say anything as he stared across the horizon. Dany didn’t say anything either. She thought of the First Men, who had made their homes out of this place. They made a home out of the bogs of the Neck, out of frost and stone of the Barrowlands. They traversed the Wolfswood, that infinite expanse of shadow and trees, and they claimed it as theirs. They didn’t know what it meant to have comfort. They carved that out for themselves.

The South was beautiful too. It had fields of golden wheat that stretched for leagues. When the sun would rise above it, you would almost be blinded by the light. The trees were orange and red, and the brooks would reflect that bright light.

“This is my mother’s North,” he said after a while. The North of Lyanna Stark, who bore him into the world. The North of loud laughter and straight talk. She knew the Northmen weren’t without fault. They played their political games as well. But it was one that revolved around bread and salt, the importance of sanctuary and respect for your neighbor. It wasn’t about words layers with words, wheels spinning within wheels.

_I want this to be our north, Jon._

“I wanted to be sure you saw this, before you left. To see my home as I think my mother would have seen it.”

“Jon.” And he looked to her. “Be honest with me. Do you love me?”

He smiled, and there was a warmness in his iron eyes. He took her hand and kissed it. “Yes Daenarys, I love you. But our lives are not a song. I know my father has plans for us, and it won’t involve you with me.” And the she started to laugh. “Dany?” There was shock in his voice, followed by the smallest hint of anger. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Jonaehrys,” she said. She was grinning. “You know nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a warning, because I feel I need to give it.
> 
> This is the narrative at its happiest and most optimistic. If all you seek is a dopey romance between Jon and Dany, leave now. Let this be the last chapter you read, and let it remain in your memory a happy story. 
> 
> With that said, this was actually a wicked easy chapter to write. It evolved alot, but it was pretty easy. The pages just flew off the screen. I decided to let it be Dany by which we returned to Winterfell. I A Song of Ice and Fire, it was through Eddard, in Fate it was through Jon. I wanted to let us see the North through Dany's eyes, as she saw it through a tiny window in whatever wheelhouse she occupied.
> 
> Jon's was fun as hell. I wanted this to totally change the perspective we all looked at Robert's Rebbelion. We all think it was Rhaegar and Lyanna being a "Romeo & Juliet" turned on its head, but the phenomenal "Conspiracy at Harrenhal" essays by KingLittlefingers reveals that to be a farce. Reasonably stretched at parts, but everything up to the segments involving Lyanna are totally backed by the source material. I'll eat a sock if GRRM doesn't reveal it to be true by the end. 
> 
> Sansa originally wasn't going to approach Rhaegar at all. I was gonna have it be a Cat/Edd perspective when Rhaegar coems to them, declines a proposal for Jon + Arya/Sansa, and lays out his plans. But I felt this was boring - it was all inactive agency on the part of Arya and Sansa. And I wanted to show Sansa as much more shrewd than in canon. Or at least as how she begins in canon. Thus I had her recognize the signs of what was happening, and intervening in her interests. 
> 
> The final segment was just a dopey "D'aaaaw" moment, but I always wanted to show just how much Danny is looking at the North through rose colored glasses. And I wanted to show that their betrothal was the secret Dany was keeping secret from everyone. Wheels within wheels.


	4. Fire Upon the Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marriages are announced, and ambitions across the Narrow Sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find music to accompany the chapter on my site. http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/home/iv-fire-upon-the-grass/

**THE WIFE OF WINTERFELL**

A few weeks past, when she was making preparations for the Targaryens, Catelyn had said to Maester Luwin, “And we shall need candles. I hear the Princess reads well into the night.”

“I have heard the same of Tryion Lannister,” he had replied as they made their way through the hall. The sound of servants at work had filled their ears. “Does she take after her gooduncle? I hear he has resided at the capitol from time to time.”

“If she does, I hope it is after his love for books, and not for his manners. I hear they are dreadful.”

However, ever since the Princess had arrived, the only thing she had seemed to spend much time with was Jon. The King had approached them after their return to Winterfell, and announced his intentions to wed Jon and Daenerys. “I will take them south with me for two years. Two years. I will know my son again, My Lord. And perhaps even hold my grandson in that time. Then I shall give them unto you, to the North, for the rest of their days.”

And in return she and Ned would give them Sansa. She will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She will be the mother to princes and princesses. From her womb will emerge a dynasty, of wolf and dragon, a union of the North and the South. And Cat will never see her daughter again.

The day they would announce the marriage was coming. A link between the North and South. Sansa and Aegon will unite it with blood, while Jon and Daenerys will unite it with words and conviction. She wanted to say she was happy, thrilled at the prospects. _I am glad. The North is earning so much. The Kingdoms will prosper under these agreements, even if Ned’s lords won’t see it as such. But they will see in time, I am certain._ But she couldn’t untwist the knot in her gut, the feeling that her life was going to change forever.

Sansa was leaving the North. She would ride south with Aegon and the Targaryens. She remembered when she and Arya were first placed in her arms, red faced and wailing. Her precious girls. And these would be the last few weeks Cat would see Sansa again.

The Lords came in over the course of the week. Lord Medger Cerwyn and his son, Cley are amongst the first to arrive. Hardly a shock, as Castle Cerwyn is half a day’s ride from Winterfell. They were followed by the Glovers, the Karstarks, the Forresters, the Umbers, and a dozen more less prominent men of note. All loyal North men. All Stark men.

And none compared to the excitement Ned had for when he saw the Manderly banners on the horizon. It had been six years since the wedding at White Harbor, and as the years of marriage had changed the man. He rode through the South Gate on a gray palfrey, paired with two riders holding the Manderly banners. Behind them rode a wheelhouse, no doubt holding Lady Wynafryd and their daughter Wendilla. Benjen’s clean face had grew a beard, thick and coarse, and his gut had become more pronounced. Not to the extent of his goodbrothers Wylis and Wendel, but he had feasted well in the halls of the Harbor.

“Benjen.” They wrapped themselves around each other, laughing and smiles wide. “Look at you,” Ned said as he took a step back. “You look-“

“Well? In good health? A happy husband?”

“ _Fat_ ”, Ned said with a wicked smile. An exaggeration to be sure. Benjen had a gut he could do well to wean off, but he also wasn’t Aegon the Fourth come again.

Benjen laughed at the lie. Wynafryd was stepping out of the wheelhouse, and Wendilla was following her mother. She was only six and already looked like a Stark with her raven dark hair. Wynafryd had adapted to motherhood well, if appearances ever had any say in the matter. Cat had seen some women look as if they aged twenty years after their first pregnancies, but Wynafryd still had a womanly and comely figure. She may still have stretch marks beneath her dress, but the girl presented herself well.

Cat kissed her on the cheek. “Welcome to Winterfell, Wynafryd.”

“Thank you Lady Catelyn.” _There is no warmness between us. Not yet. That will change by the week’s end – I hope._

Little Wendilla did a curtsy, hindered by the clumsiness of a child. “Thank you for welcoming us to your home, Aunt Catelyn.” _So much like Sansa, when she was young. So eager to please, to act like her mother._

“You are very gracious, young lady. I only wish you would refer to me as Aunt Catelyn.”

“Of course, Aunt Catelyn.”

_She’s quicker to it than Jon was._

“How much longer until everyone has arrived?” Benjen asked. “Surely we cannot be the first. The _Wynafryd_ is a fast ship, but not that quick.”

“Should not be much longer. You’ll get your big feast soon enough.” Ned slapped Ben on the belly, and he laughed. “We are still expecting Ramsay and his son Domeric.”

Benjen frowned. “Of course they would be the last.”

Catelyn had never heard a story where the Boltons and the Starks were friends, or even allies. The closest she could say was they were enemies that needed each other too much. The Starks were Winterfell, and Winterfell was the North, and the Boltons held too much martial strength to be ignored. Some say that the Boltons were the reason that Winterfell had two sets of moats and gates.

“I don’t like the lords of Dreadfort anymore than you do. But I hear good things about his son. Domeric was squired to the Lord of Redfort for three years. Some say there is a jousting champion in him.”

Benjen spat. “Good with a horse or not, I still don’t trust a Bolton so long as they glare. And they are always glaring.”

Ned smiled. “That they are. I’m more worried about Roose’s stares than I am about how my Lords will react to the King’s announcements.”

Benjen grabbed Ned by the arm. “So it’s true.”

“Depends on how far from the vine you heard it from. You’ll find out at the feast.”

Catelyn motioned for a few servants to take their things. “They will show you to your chambers. We should have dinner tonight. Just us Starks.”

“A lovely idea,” Wynafryd said in agreement. “For the next few days we will be seeing nothing but of the North. Let this family dine together.”

“I could do for some peace around a table,” Ned said.

“And a not so quiet dinner?” Benjen laughed at his own joke. “Although with the Princess around, I wonder if we’ll manage to wiggle my nephew free for the evening?”

 _He’ll have enough time with her once they are wed under the weirwood._ “Jon will manage, Ben.”

As they walked Benjen and Wynafryd back to their rooms, plans were made. They would feast in the great keep, like they would as if there was no one in Winterfell but the Starks. They would have the cooks split off some of the meal they had prepared for the guests, and they would join them in the great hall afterwards. The Starks would have their time alone, and none would feel slighted.

Well, the Queen would feel slighted. Cat learned just how easy it was to slight the Queen. Every word from Cersei was layered with threats and suggestions of superiority. Catelyn felt she was dancing on knives whenever she spoke with her.

They were served chicken dashed in honey, sprinkled with blueberries that have shrunk and wrinkle, and bread to soak in the gravy. Bran managed to get away from Ser Barristan for the evening, which Cat took as a blessing. _I won’t say that he works my Bran too hard, but it is good he gets a reprieve. I have hardly seen my boy since the dragons came._ The only guest Jon had brought with him was Ghost. He had the foresight to leave the Princess with her family, which saved her and Ned from an awkward announcement. _She will be family soon enough. I will call Daenerys goodniece in time, although I’m sure their visits will be infrequent. Whatever castle and land Ned gifts them, it will be a part of the Gift, and that is several weeks away._ The King wanted to make the news himself at the proper feast, with all of the Northron Lords in attendance.

She thought of Daenerys. Her beauty was unquestionable, although she would refute allegations that she was the _most_ beautiful maidens in the realm. And she had heard not one complaint regarding her personality, from either of her girls or any of the servants that attended to her. _Unlike the Queen, whose toxic character could fill a book._ But she wondered if her comely form betrayed her hips. A wife must counsel her lord husband, attend to his needs, manage his household… even more, she must give him children. Daenerys would put on too many layers of fur and clothes for Cat to really get an idea of her hips. _I hope the Gods blessed her with a nice face and a good figure. Save Jon a tragedy._

Jon had taken his seat next to her. Benjen was already in talks about expanding the boundaries of White Harbor, trying to sell Ned on the idea that increasing their merchant navy would be a wise investment. “Look to Lannisport. What do they have to offer?”

“Gold,” Ned said at once. “Lannister gold and lots of it. They’re the second richest of the Kingdoms, and for good reason.”

“Yes, but we have more than gold. The eastern shores are closer to the Free Cities. We have a more vibrant land. The North is the biggest of the kingdoms. We have a little of everything. We have crannogs, we have forests and plains. We have everything but a mountain filled with an endless supply of gold to mine from. And I don’t think even think even _that_ will last forever.”

“And you think more ships will solve that?”

“I do. I did nothing but read while I was waiting for my goodfather to come to wedding terms. And think. I thought about a lot of things,” and he grinned as he looked at Wynafryd. His wife rolled her eyes. “But ways in which White Harbor could become a greater city than it is was the foremost amongst them. I’m not saying this could be accomplished in a day, or even through most of my lifetime.

“But I do remember what Father told us. That a legacy is a garden you never expect to see. And I want my Wendel and son to have a very plump garden. White Harbor is the Mouth of the North, and it should be overflowing with exotic fruits.”

“I’ll think on it. It’s an idea.”

“It’s a _good_ idea Ned.”

“The executioner is still out on that one. But this is supposed to be a dinner, not a meeting with Lords.”

“I apologize for Ben’s eagerness,” Wynafryd said. “He spoke to my father of this, and Lord Wyman won’t speak of little else. Even as sickly and bedridden as he is.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Cat said. “What ails him so?”

“Being _old_ ,” Benjen said as he drank down some mead. “The realities of life are catching up with the Lord of the Harbor. But even as he coughs on that bed everyone in the Castle pays head to him. Death won’t take one without a fight.”

“As should be said of any Northron,” Robb said. Ayes were echoed around the room.

“Or of any Iron Islander.” The table turned towards Theon. “If you want more ships, Lord Benjen, you need protection from raiders and pirates.”

“Like from your House?” Benjen asked.

“Like from the Stepstone Isles,” Theon said. “The Iron Fleet is small, but no navy could ever be said to be as fierce. It could do well to beseech my family.”

“Theon, no offense, but the only Greyjoy I trust is the one that is in this very room. I’d put more trust in a Bolton than any of your House. And none have heard from the Iron Islanders for years. Your Uncle has retreated that Iron Fleet of his to the Islands.”

“I have to agree with my brother,” Ned said. “The trust you put in your family is ill placed. You will prove your worth in other ways, but it won’t be in negotiating an agreement based on an idea I haven’t even agreed to yet.”

“No worries on that,” Ben said. He had a confident smile on his face. “I’ll warm you in time.”

It was Ned’s turn to smile. “We Starks are known for our stubbornness, Brother, in case you have forgotten. And the more mead I drink, the more stubborn I feel.”

“You and every Northron alive Ned.” Benjen raised his mead, foam overflowing from the lip. _The boy is wrong. He is not an Iron Islander, not anymore. He has never paid the Iron Price, and Gods be good he never will. Once the dragons leave I will talk to Ned. We need to bind him to a Northron wife. Just like Sansa and Aegon will unite the North and South, we need a Union for the North and the Islands. That may be a tougher fight than any Ned had ever fought for Robert._

_Marriages always were a battle of their own, a war meant for wives and mothers instead of men._

She laid a tender hand on his arm. “Then perhaps you should drink a little less, dear husband. Stubbornness rarely leads to a heartwarming reunion.”

Ned chewed on his lip a bit, before he put down his flagon.

The food was eaten, and the drink was drained soon after. Only flimsy scraps was left on the turkey’s bones, bits of meat rose to the top of the gravy. Ned told them to hold to deception and order food when the formal dinner was held, but not to eat too much. Catelyn doubted anyone could have put more in them when they tried. Even she felt the grease-fueled sleepiness.

No surprise the Starks were quiet during the “dinner” with the Targaryens and the Northern Lords. She saw the Princess speak with Jon, who yawned more than once. Cat noticed that she narrowed her eyes at the fourth yawn, and Cat suspected Daenerys had more than idea of what happened. Nobody said the Northrons were good mummers.

_It was always the lands south of the Neck that were known for their mummer plays and their puppet shows. The North with the ballads of their heroes dying for what was right. And their Kings that wrestled with bears. The only deceivers in those songs were those wildlings that scaled the Wall and stole a Stark’s daughter. And their sons would end up doing the right thing and strike down their Wildling fathers._

It was a quiet affair, all things considered. Many of the Northern families were still resting from their long travels. And her family had every reason to be quiet. If it weren’t for the Targaryens, they may well have excused themselves to their chambers all together. _None but my family would be here if Rhaegar and his House wasn’t here_. The same honey grazed turkey was offered, but the Starks only took a minimal helping. Daenerys had a wry smile on her face as she noticed the difference in helpings, between her and Jon. _A keen eye on her. I bet Jon hadn’t said a word and his betrothed-to-be has already figured out our conspiracy._

But this was a possible future, Catelyn begin to realize. There were no stares that silently suggest rebellion, no hard looks towards the silver haired rulers of Westeros. Smiles surrounded the table, mead was traded with abandonment. Northrons and Southerners, all under one roof, enjoying the presence of the other. _Perhaps in a decade, after the marriages and the fruits they have born, moments will these will be common place. The idea of Northrons stirring against their Southern neighbors an absurd notion._ As she sipped at her watered wine, she relished the dream.

The Boltons arrived the next morning, and Winterfell was filled with hushed excitement at the prospect of the King’s announcement.

 

**THE PRINCE WITH DARK HAIR**

Father had summoned them to his chambers the night after Dany told him. _We are being betrothed. Dany and_ I. It all seemed like an absurd dream, as they rode back to camp, as they rode back to Winterfell. He was certain he would bump into a wall and wake up, and find out instead that Father would betroth him to Arya or Sansa.

But he did wake up, and when first saw Dany when they broke the fast she was smiling. This was no dream.

When he and Dany arrived at his chambers, the day after Dany told him on the cliff, Father was alone. The Queen was absent, which Jon silently thanked the Gods for. “You know by now, my intentions,” Father had said. A small pile of scrolls, parchments and tomes were laid before Father. It reminded Jon of when he had been invited to break the fast with him. It almost seemed like that young prince in the Holdfast was another life. “I did not imagine Dany could keep a truth like that from you for long.”

“I am sorry Rhaegar. But I couldn’t. Not if you threatened my life.”

“Nor would I ever. I wanted Jon to know from your lips. I had learned of my betrothal to Elia Martell at a dinner, my Father pronouncing it with such…” the words fell away as Father seemed to search for the words. “Like every word was straining his tongue. Tell me of your House. Every House needs a name and words. Usually these things come about…naturally, but Houses are rarely planned ahead of time.”

“Whitefyre,” Dany had said at once. “The Blackfyres wanted to sunder the Kingdoms, usurp the Iron Throne for something Daemon had no right to. Our House will keep the realm together.” That was all Dany’s idea. Jon remembered that they were bouncing names off of each other as they rode back to the tents. Then Jon recalled the Blackfyre Rebellions.

“Rhaegar will want a name,” Dany had said. “We will need a name. This is going to be a new House.”

“Don’t tell me I will need to visit the library.”

Dany smiled, and Lyanna Mormont had lightly shaken her head. “You will probably need to visit the library. We need ideas. Maybe some other King had the same idea as Rhaegar, and we can steal from him.”

“Gods,” Jon groaned. “The only time I ever visited the library was when I wanted to read on King Daeron.”

“The Conqueror of _Dorne_ ,” Dany said in false reverence. “He was the only subject that could bring you to Pycelle’s lessons.”

“That and the Blackfyres.” And as he remembered that false house, an idea struck him. He turned his horse around, blocking Danny and Lyanna’s path. “The Blackfyres wanted to take the throne for themselves. Their House was formed for themselves.”

Lyanna stared silently at Jon, her dark eyes were focused on him. Dany narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at it, Jon?”

“Our House is not for ourselves. It is supposed to serve the realm. Let’s play off that. Let’s call it _Whitefyre_. It harkens to our home, here in the North, as well as to our Targaryen bloodlines.”

“And it contrasts with the rebels” Dany said in soft realization. “And it solves the issue of our banner. It could be…”

“A white dragon on a red field,” Jon answered when Father asked for it. The room seemed to grow hotter when he said it, as if the hearth was growing in reception to the idea.

Father had rubbed at his chin, deep in thought. “That would be a controversial choice. An inspiring one, though, in the years to come.” He looked to Jon. “What are your words?”

“’We Remember the Storm.’ We were born in war, and we won’t forget it. Not the costs of it, not what it has done to our home. Our children won’t forget it. The House serves to make sure that will never happen.”

“And by your actions, may that be true. We’ll announce it at the feast, once the rest of your Uncle’s bannermen have arrived. I won’t offer congratulations. This is a hard road I have put you two on. Your affections will soften the blow, but in the years you will realize just how much of a burden I have placed on your young shoulders. I hope you will come to forgive me.”

“Brother, there is nothing to forgive. We are the blood of the dragon. We always serve the realm first. Even the love Jon and I have for each other is to produce a House to unite the North and South.”

Once the Boltons arrived, with their pink flayed man soaring above them, the Feast was quickly arranged. The Lords of the North were gathered together beneath the Feast Hall by midday. The chimneys bellowed with dark smoke, and none could escape the aroma of food being prepared.

As the Feast was all but about to begin, Aunt Catelyn sent for him. “You and Robb should go escort the Princess and Lady Mormont to the Hall.” She had smiled when she said it. “I’m sure you’ll look like a fine pair” He was dressed in a black doublet, a color just as much Stark as Targaryen. Pinned to his shoulder was a red brooch, three dragon heads encircling each other. Stitched onto his sleeve was the grey wolf of Stark. He was his Father’s son, just as much as he was the son of Lyanna Stark, and everyone needed to know it. _He did not take Mother. He saved her from my Grandfather._

Jon knocked on the door, and Lyanna answered. Her dark hair was swept back, with only a small braid running from her brow to keep it in check. She was dressed in a conservative gown, a mixture of red and dark brown. She did not look pleased. She always had a look as if she was anticipating something.

“Jon,” came Dany from behind her. She was dressed in a simple white dress, her bare arms exposed. _She is not afraid of the cold. She will be living her for the rest of our lives._ Clasped at the center was a brooch showing the sigil of their House, the three headed dragon of Aegon. “Shall we?” She offered her hand.

“In a moment.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal brooch, smelted into the shape of a fierce wolf. He pinned it to the side of her dress, near her shoulder.

“Your Uncle’s bannermen will talk, suspect, before Rhaegar could even announce anything.”

“Then maybe he will be all the quicker to get it over with.”

Dany laid her hand metal wolf, her fingers feeling the grooves of the brooch. “Lya, give us the room. This won’t take long.”

Lyanna Mormont didn’t say anything, save for a suspicious stare. She left the room and closed the door to just a gap.

“Jon, what will happen when my brother announces the marriage?”

Jon didn’t say anything for a moment. “Do you want the truth?”  

“Yes,” she said. “From you, nothing else.”

“They won’t accept it, not at first. We haven’t done anything to proven their trust. But that will change, with every day. Our House will be there for a day, than a week, then a year, then a few years. We will have children, born and raised in the North.” Jon felt a little warmth rush to his cheeks, and Dany smiled a bit at the notion. “And eventually, they won’t have seen it any other way. I may have to fight a few battles for Robb, you may have to tell Lord Umber to shut up and sit down.” She smiled at that. Dany by now had seen just how massive Lord Greatjon Umber was, with his coarse beard and booming voice. “But we’ll prove it.”

“Then let’s start doing that right now.” She pulled him to her and kissed him. It wasn’t no chaste kiss, no display of affection. She breathed him in and he could taste the beating on her lips. “Let’s go,” she said as she pulled away. “The North is waiting.”

 _The North could wait a few more minutes_. He realized how ugly that dress was on her. It would have looked better crumpled around her legs. She would have looked best with nothing at all. But then Dany tugged on his arm, and he hoped none would notice how his sex had hardened against his britches.

“Come on Jon,” Robb said as they stepped out. Lyanna held a loose grip on his arm, and Jon could just see what Robb was trying to say. _Save me from this stone walled woman._ He would have laughed if Dany wasn’t right next to him. They walked down the hall, towards the sound of revelry. Coarse hands slapping on tables, rough voices echoing across the hall, fits of laughter, the clanging of steel being passed down the tables.

Robb and Lyanna went first. Their arrival was followed by a loud cheer, of dozen flagons banning against the tables in unison. They found their place beside Aunt and Uncle. He and Dany stepped down from the dais, and there were cheers and applauds. Each clap, each slap on the tables had a vacuum in between them. They found their place besides Father and the Queen. Robb was seated further down, beside Uncle Aunt. Targaryens and Stark both were seated above everyone else.

The endless parade of cooked and salted meats filled the Hall with a hazy smoke, and it all seemed to grow heavy with the smell of it all. The dark stones were filled with the gray-white banners of the Starks and the dark-red of the Targaryens, fluttering in the wind. A few singers were singing ballads that Jon did not care to listen to. He chewed on a honeyed turkey, his right hand holding the fork. With his left, below the table, his fingers were entwined with Dany’s. There was a wry smile on her face, a small preview of their lives together.

Bran was the furthest down from them, seated beside his Ser Barristan. He was almost six and ten, and he looked with desire at the flagons of mead. If he wasn’t seated so close to both his mother and his Ser, Jon had no doubt that Bran would be half drunk by now. Instead he just chewed, with a slow and deliberate pace. Ser Barristan had a smile that showed he knew precisely why Bran was eating with suck care.

Sansa was seated next to Aegon, who had a small smile on her face as she slowly sipped from a cup. Aegon was talking with all the abandonment Jon had come to expect from his half-brother. Aegon was like Robb – if Robb did not care what others thought of his words. Aegon really did try to know him in the weeks they have been here. They never had the opportunity when they were children. Father had sent him and Rhaenys to see the Kingdoms, while Jon was stuck in King’s Landing. Jon would lie if he wasn’t envious, but he imagined his life would be so much different without Dany at his side.

_You can keep your Kingdoms, Egg, if I can keep Dany with me._

Father rose from his seat. All eyes were drawn to him. The Queen’s eyes narrowed. Jon felt the side of his mouth tug into a small smile. Dany’s fingers tightened around his own. “My Lords of Winterfell!” Father’s voice boomed with regal authority. “Of the North! Of the First Men!” With each proclamation came a clamoring of feet that stomped on the ground. “I am thankful for your hospitality and warmth! I imagine no dragon has seen a warmer reception in all of the Kingdoms, save for Pyke a few years back.” The hall was filled with laughter. It was a good boast. Even Uncle had allowed himself a small smile.

“I gave unto the North ten years ago my son. Jonaehrys was a boy of promise. The Warden of the North returned to me a man, molded by the customs of his mother! My son, speak to me now of your Uncle.”

“He is a good man!” The butts of spears stomped at the ground, fists pounded onto tables. “A true man of the North! A man all of his sons are proud to name ‘Father!’”

“Well said, son of my blood. And born from Northern blood as well! And what faith do you follow?”

“It is the faith of the Old Men! I pray in the godswood, before the weirwoods! The religion of my Mother, and the Mother before her, on and on until the days of the Children of the Forest!”

“A trueborn son of Northern heritage, as well as the dynasty of Aegon the Conqueror.” The cheers were dampened. _Here it comes. The revelation, and the whispers of fanfare._ “Jonaehrys, and Daenerys, my beloved sister. Rise.” They did so, and there were the murmurs of whispers. Uncle was glaring towards the crowd, his fingers tightening into a fist.  “The realm has been divided too long, by ignorance and superstition. I will make the first strike towards ending that today, my Lords of the North.

“I announce the wedding between Jonaehrys and Daenerys, of House Targaryen and Stark! They shall go with me to King’s Landing for two years, and after that time they shall be wed under the weirwood of Winterfell. And from them shall spring a new House, dedicated to keeping the peace! Named as Whitefyre” – and Jon could see Northron men and women murmuring to each other – “and speaking the words of ‘We Remember the Storm’, they shall act as a chain for the North and the South and for all the Kingdoms to follow.” Father raised a glass. “Let them be ambassadors, for both the North and the South. To this union. To Whitefyre! To the Kingdoms!”

There was silence, for the briefest of moments. Then someone who Jon just _knew_ to be the Greatjon Umber roared “Cheer yer shits!” and the Hall fell into compliance. Jon kissed Dany’s hand and she looked at him. There was no worry on her face, no trace of fear. _We will earn their respect_ , they said in silence.

“But I also remember another promise made by one Targaryen to another, years ago. Before any here were in the wombs of their mothers!” There were more whispers now, excited and breathless. “A Pact of Ice and Fire.” And the Hall went silent. Father’s hands fell on Aegon’s shoulder, who was looking up to his father. “Rise my son. Sansa, my dear, stand for all to see.” They did so, and Aegon was looking to Jon and Sansa was looking to Dany. “It is time for a promise to be fulfilled. The North deserves their link to the Iron Throne!” The sound of cheers, of the stamping of feet, of fists smashing onto the tables, was deafening. Father’s voice was straining to rise above them.

“The North has been loyal to the dragons. It was Torrhen Stark that became the Knight That Knelt, and that fealty has never been repaid. It is a shame on my House! I shall rectify that today! My Lords of the North, of Winterfell, all of you Stark men, I announce the union of Sansa of House Stark and my son, the crown heir, Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name! And with these unions, of House Whitefyre, Targaryen and Stark, we shall set the foundations for a new age of Westeros! One that will last for a thousand years!”

And the cheer that followed was so overwhelming, Jon was certain the roof would cave on their heads. The entirety of the Hall rose at once. None dared remain in their seats. “HAIL TO THE KING. HAIL TO RHAEGAR! HAIL TO RHAEGAR!”

 

**THE WARDEN OF THE NORTH**

By the time Rhaegar had made the announcements, the feast well and truly on.

Ned could hardly think of the last time that Winterfell had played host to such a feast. Perhaps it was when they had returned in triumph from Pyke. Too much had been lost in the Rebellion for Ned to throw anything more than a “Welcome home” supper. But the air was thick with the smoke of cooked pig and honeyed turkey. Mead was flowing with eagerness, and there was nothing but good cheer.

_A peace. This is a taste of things to come._

Robert had wanted peace, with Lyanna besides him and Rhaegar dead in the Trident. Rhaegar had done more to secure such a peace with just a few words and promises than all of the blood that Robert had spilled in his Rebellion.

Aegon was the first to embrace Jon first, just as the cheers and roars were in full swing. “Brother, let me give you my congratulations! And Dany, I think I need to call you sister from now on, instead of dear aunt.” The Princess had said something with a smile, but Ned couldn’t hear it.

Sansa was not far behind her betrothed, and Dany reached for her and kissed her on the cheek. She whispered something into Sansa’s ear, and Ned’s daughter had a small smile as she responded. _I hope Sansa sees the Princess as a sister now, rather than as just an intruder into the family._ Ned turned his eyes towards Arya, who did not move from her seat. She sat there steadfast, her fingers coiled around a cup. _Or perhaps it is Arya that I should be concerned with?_

Jon had entered the dance floor first, with Daenerys by his side. If it weren’t for Rhaegar, Ned would have seen him escorting Sansa at that moment. His daughter wed to the man that he saw as a son. But seeing the glow in their faces as they looked at each other, Ned remembered Ashara. _Her purple eyes dragged me across Harrenhal. Just as the Princesses’ commands Jon with a grin._ They both looked comely together, if Ned were to be honest with himself.

But the path would be hard. Dany would be seen as a dragon for a long time, before she would ever be considered a Northron. Perhaps she never would. But their children will be raised under the Weirwoods. Whether their hairs would be woven from silver, or be dark like the night, Ned would love to see whom they would grow up to be. _They would be dragons, born and wed to the North. And they would be as grandchildren to me and Cat_.

It was the ‘Bear and the Maiden Fair’ that was the first to play, and the Hall was filled with cheerful stomps that was in unison with the tune. More and more joined the dance as the song played, and when at the beginning it was only the newly betrothed, by the end a dozen pairs were swinging with the melody.

Cheers erupted at the final words of the song, and as the bards tuned their instruments for the next performance. Daenerys broke from Jon and she approached the high stand. “Lord Stark!” she cried out.

Ned leaned over the table. “My congratulations to your union, Princess Daenerys.”

She extended her arm. “Lord Stark, will you dance with me for the next song?”

Ned looked towards Cat, who smiled and nodded at him. And beyond her he saw Queen Cersei, who seemed to not have an ounce of approval. She was sipping from her cup of wine, and she would not take her eyes off of the Princess.

“I shall, Princess. Let me make my way to the floor.”

 _There is some Northron in her yet_. Jon had told him how in the South, it was always the Lords and Princes that asked the Ladies to dance. In the North, the invitation could go both ways. Ned made his way to her and he held her hands.

“Let me call you goodfather,” she said softly as they began to move their feet. “You were a second father to Jon.” She did more of the dancing that Ned did. Cat did her best to teach him the steps, but he never had the feet for it. The Princess was the opposite, and Ned was fortunate she took slow steps for his sake.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Ned said with a smile. “Did he say so himself?”

“He didn’t need to. I could see it whenever he spoke of his cousins, of when he looked upon you and Lady Catelyn. You raised him to be the man I always thought he would be, when we were children. I can’t say how thankful I am.”

The way Daenerys smiled reminded him of Ashara Dayne. Brandon had encouraged him to take a dance with her. “Look how alone she is,” Brandon had said with a wide smile. “Go encourage her company, brother.” He wondered how different things would be, if Rhaegar had not run off with Lyanna. Would his children have purple eyes and dark hair? Would it be comparable to the happiness he now held in his heart?

_No. This truth is far sweeter than anything that dream could provide._

“I am thankful for a great deal many things, Princess.”

“Please, call me Dany. I am your gooddaughter now.”

Ned smiled. “Very well then, Dany. I am thankful that your brother let me guide his son for ten years. I am thankful he became such a good man, a man that any Father would be proud of. I’m thankful my King can be so ambitious with his unions. Fire and Blood indeed. So much of both in his ambitions.”

“I know the Stark words,” and as she spoke her voice took on a colder tone. “Winter is coming, and my winter will be proving to your Lords that this union will work.”

“It will,” Ned said. There was no doubt in his voice. _There is more of the North in you than you give yourself credit for, Princess._ “Of all the Targaryens, only you voiced no complaints. Prince Aegon hid it behind good jest, but all can sense his discomfort. All can see just how miserable Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella are. The weather is the first barrier, and you have overcome it.

“The Lords will be easy. Trust me.”

“I’m glad you’re so optimistic, goodfather.”

“It’s not optimism, It’s the truth. We Northrons prefer bluntness.”

She smiled. “Then let me be blunt. The Starks created a North in which none can imagine it without the Starks within Winterfell. Jon and I want to create a new North, where none can imagine a son of Whitefyre standing behind his Lord of Winterfell.”

 _You are a true Northron, Princess._ “Then make it so, Daenerys.”

 

**THE KRAKEN’S SON**

As a boy in Pyke, Theon would often be swimming beneath a waves when a longship came sailing into the harbor. He remembered the crashing of the waves around his ears. He had heard the sound of a thousand men clashing and killing under his window atop Pyke. He though he knew what loud what was.

That was nothing compared to what he heard when the King announced the marriages. It was a hundred different voices, cheers and declarations of royalty, vows of friendship and prophecies that “ _Now_ was the time of the North”, all mangled together. They _are not just hailing Rhaegar as king. The North is joining with the South._ He wondered if that had ever happened before. There was that King That Knelt, whatever Stark that was. But the North always kept to themselves, with a few exceptions. The North was the North, and the other kingdoms could do as they pleased.

_Which made raiding them easier. Not easy, because you can’t break steel like that. But maybe the only fire and blood the Targaryens ever needed was the marriage bed._

Once the feet stomping and cheers had died down, the minstrels were allowed to do their work. Ballads began to be sang down the Hall, and the center of the Hall was cleared to make way for dance. Jon and the Princess, along with Sansa and the Prince, were the first to enter. Theon had to be honest, Jon and Daenerys seemed to be quite the pairing, if one could judge such a thing with just how well they moved with each other. Jon was grinning like an idiot. The man was supposed to be a prince, but he didn’t know how to smile that didn’t reveal he was hopeless over Daenerys. _I thought the Southerners had elegance, but that isn’t helping Jon._

Still a preferable look to the brooding that Jon usually performed. The Targaryens had been at Winterfell for so long, and Jon had been at the Princesses’ heel for so much, that Theon almost forgot that Jon usually wore a mask of iron for a face.

And the Princess…well, she was a natural. She smiled _just enough_ to let the whole North know that Jon was hers. But it wasn’t an obvious display. There was the hint that you could have a small place besides her. Far and away from Jon, of course. She was beautiful, and Theon imagined just how regal their children would look. _If your sons and daughters aren’t Aegon and Rhaenys come again, the world will be disappointed._

Sansa danced with grace, and her betrothed showed that he spent all his years in the capitol. There was not a hint of indecision on either of their parts. That would be good, since they will both rule the Kingdoms. _But side by side? Doubtful. You are neither of Aegon’s sister wives, Sansa._ Most of the cheers were for the new royal couple. No surprise there: this was the union that Cregan Stark was promised. It only took a near sixty years, and half a dozen rebellions for it to come to fruition.

The betrothed were the first to enter the floor, but they were joined by a dozen others. Cousins danced with cousins, Lords danced with their Lady wives, the young danced with their older relatives, and the atmosphere became contagious. It was one big mess of energy. Theon had seen it many a time, but he wondered just how used were the royal family to this. Were dances in the South more refined, stately affairs?

The Northmen didn’t care. This was _their_ day, and they were going to celebrate. Theon drank from his cup, swallowing the sweet mead. Then he saw the approach of a man that seemed older than Lord Stark, but he walked with confidence. He was clean shaven, and his was combed flat to his shoulders. His eyes were the silver of the North, like Lord Eddard or Jon. But Theon felt something uncomfortable climb up his back.

“Theon Greyjoy,” said the man as he clasped Theon’s hand. He nearly spilled his drinking horn. The man’s grip was firm, and Theon heard the crinkling of his leather sleeve. “I do not remember seeing you at Lord Benjen’s wedding.”

He knew it was Lord Bolton the moment he spoke. “That was six years ago, Lord Bolton.” Theon did not flinch. “You must have forgotten me.”

“Anything is possible.” And he released his grip. “Such as a Stark being wed to a Targaryen, in an official manner. We have heard so much of the Pact, of the union that was promised, one was beginning to feel it was all a myth.”

“So were direwolves. And now five reside within this very hall.”

Roose Bolton smiled. “Yes, the five Stark children now have a direwolf of their own. Perhaps your Drowned God will rise up from the seas tomorrow, and the night shall be filled with the music of dragons the day after.”

“Like you said Lord Bolton. Anything is possible.”

The Lord of the Dreadfort turned towards Jon and Daenerys. “A natural couple. They look quite happy, although I have found happiness does not necessarily lead to a good union.”

“Jon will do fine.” _What is dead may never die._ “He’s shrewder than most give him credit for.”

“But not as shrewd as most,” and Lord Bolton turned back to Theon. “Am I right?” Theon said nothing. “I wonder what was the weirwood they found between the Inn and Dorne. I would like to visit it someday.”

“Theon.” He turned to see Arya approach him. She was in a gown, but she looked as natural in it as if someone put her in another layer of flesh. “Would you dance with me?”

 _I’m supposed to say that, but I’m not going to raise the point._ “Excuse me Lord Bolton. It was a pleasure.”

“Of course, Theon. Always a pleasure to speak with one of our most visionary neighbors.” Arya grabbed his hand and they half walked-half stumbled onto the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” Theon asked as he placed his left hand on her hip.

“Keeping you from saying something stupid.”

“And just what am I doing?”

“Keeping me from doing something stupid. So shut up and lead me.”

“You don’t know how to dance.”

“Which is why you’re leading me. Pray to your squid I don’t break your toes. _Lead_ , Lord Greyjoy.”

So he did, slower than he would have liked. Arya’s grip was too tight. “I’m not a fish. Don’t hold onto me so tight.” She frowned, but she did as he asked. Her legs were too close to his. “Don’t be too close. Relax your legs.” She frowned, but she did as he asked.

“So, what was the stupid thing you kept me from saying?”

“I don’t know. But I saw the look on your face. And I saw the look on Lord Bolton’s face.”

“And what were those looks? I was fine.”

Arya snorted. “No you weren’t. That’s the stupid thing I saved you from saying.” She followed in his steps. “I know I’m not good with people. But if I could tell that the last place you needed to be was in Lord Bolton’s grip-“

“Fine,” he said sharply. “Enough. So what did I save you from doing?”

They passed by Sansa and Prince Aegon, who moved with all the elegance one would expect. “From yelling at her.”

“For what? Did you fancy the Prince.”

“Theon if you’re going to be that dumb, then just shut up.” He sighed. “She didn’t tell me the truth about why she was going to talk to the King.”

“The King?” He turned his head towards Sansa. _She spoke to the King? Is she the reason why all these betrothals are happening now? I remember when she was just a girl._

 _And who are you, crowned kings,_  
_the lord of dragons said,_  
 _that I cannot take what is yours?_  
 _He came with his steeds, he came with his armies,_  
 _he came with his sisters, and he came with his dragons._  
 _His dragons, ho! his dragons, ha!_  
 _The three of them entwined, the three of them abed,_  
 _and what could resist the fires of their mounts?_  
 _None, from here to the Rock to the North,_  
 _could stop him from taking what was theirs?_  
 _And the dragons three came and conquered,_  
 _and made seven into one!_

The song came to an end, and a polite applause filled the room. “Come,” Theon said and he pulled at her, “I want a drink, and you need a drink.” _The only way I am getting the truth out of you is with some wine in you._ She offered no protests, although she did snap her wrist free from him. He grabbed a horn and filled it. She only took a quick look around the room before she drained it.

“So you seem to be the only Stark without anything going on. Sansa gets to be Queen, Jon gets his Princess-“

“For all the whores you’ve laid with, you don’t know when to shut up Greyjoy.”

Theon shrugged. “Do you got a plan?”

“Stalling until I have one.”

“Sounds like a shit plan.” They turned and saw a man who must have been no more than two and twenty, four and twenty at most. He was dressed in a sleeveless brown coat, wearing beneath it a pink tunic stitched with the insignia of the flayed man. “Domeric Bolton,” he said with a small bow. 

“The son of Roose Bolton,” Theon said. “I met your father.”

“My father is quite the dominating man in conversations. Only the Lord Umber and Lord Stark himself seem capable of giving him pause.”

“I don’t remember you from my Uncle’s wedding.”

“Nor would you. I wasn’t there. I was still being a ward to Lord Redfort of the Vale at the time.”

Theon sipped from his horn. “That’s unusual. Most Northrons wouldn’t ward for a Valemen.”

“And yet, Lord Eddard did for many of his years to Lord Arryn. I enjoyed my time with the Redfort. Came to know what it meant to have brothers, and opened my eyes quite a bit.”

“And what would you see with those opened eyes?” Arya looked at him, and Theon knew there was not an ounce of trust in her. The Starks and the Boltons never got along, but this was different. Theon could just feel that the son of the Dreadfort was looking for something.

“That Westeros should be one kingdom, not seven.” Domeric sipped from his cup. “Which the King seems to be in accord.”

“Quite the marriages,” Theon chirped. “The dragons are coming north, and a wolf is going south. The North will be mighty happy. Doubt they’ll be raising their banners for another rebellion anytime soon.”

“The North has _always_ been loyal,” Arya snapped. “Not Father’s fault that a Mad King demanded his head.”

“Or for his best friend’s,” spoke Domeric. “If the same happened to any of the Redfort sons, I would have waged war for them in an instant. Closest thing to brothers I think I will ever have.”

“Do you not have any of your own? Sisters even?” _I had brothers, but they all drowned during the siege. They were cruel and vicious bastards, but they were still kin._

“I am the only of my Father’s natural children. The rest died in their cradle, or in the womb of my mother. I know my father laid with some woman on her First Night and sired a son, but he tells me nothing else.”

The Lord’s Right, as some called it. Some Targaryen King had forbidden it, declared it illegal across all the Kingdoms. But Theon had learned that some ideals travel slower in the North, and the rest are considered irrelevant all together.

“Well the Baratheons are dead regardless.”

“Are they Greyjoy?” Domeric drank from his cup. “Only one died, and the youngest has bent the knee. Although his ability to produce a child has been complicated, from what I hear.”

“Robert’s brother, Stannis right?” Theon and Domeric nodded. “He is across the Narrow Sea. Father said he has some kind of company at his back.”

“And what do we have to fear from one small company?” Theon grinned. “The Rebellion is done. Jon’s father saw to that.”

“Don’t be so sure, Greyjoy.” Domeric narrowed his eyes. “A son still lives, across that sea.”

 

**THE SEAWORTH**

They were surrounded by grass that had grown taller than a man. He could hardly see in front of him, save for the glimmer of the company-man in front of him. They had been trailing the khalasar of Khal Drogo for a month now, always staying a day’s march away from his horde. The Khal had sent some to scout ahead and behind, but the Golden Company were the better men. None returned to Khal Drogo.

“We do not have the men for a full assault on Drogo’s khalasar,” said Jorah around the table. “He has ten thousand Dothraki Screamers behind him.”

“And never had any Khal gathered so many. He took the braids of a dozen Khals. An unstoppable force on the field.” Gendyr was polishing his armor himself, as he always did when he was in thought. Davos remembered when Stannis had ordered him to find the boy and bring him across the sea. “But not to a subterfuge. We don’t need to take his army. We just need to kill him. A small force, no more than a thousand. The point of a spear to rip through the khalasar. The Dothraki respect strength.”

“No Westerosi has ever led a khalasar. I don’t think anyone that was not a Dothraki has ever led a khalasar.”

Gendyr looked at him and smiled. “Tell me Davos. Has anyone ever tried?” Davos had never met Robert Baratheon, but he had heard of him by reputation and from Stannis. And that reputation was of a man from legend, an impossible figure of a man. More beast than lord, who could inspire confidence with a single laugh. He had imagined that Gendyr was what Robert looked like in that moment.

The plan was debated, it was argued upon, and it was decided. All the Commanders of the Golden Company left the Company Commander’s tent. It was a reckless, stupid plan. But it was what they had. It was what they needed to have any chance across the Narrow Sea. “Bittersteel’s biggest folly was the pride he had in his Company.” Stannis had said as much to Davos once, a few months ago.

Davos had looked up to the banner of the Company, decorated by the golden skulls of all the Commanders who had died in its service. Stannis’ skull was the newest, and it glowed a marvelous hue. Even in death Stannis was grim-faced and honest. His skull was gently rocked in the breeze. _Is this what you would have wanted, had your nephew not killed you?_ Davos did not recall how long he stared at the skull of the man that rose him up, gave him more purpose than being just a smuggler of onions.

Stannis would have named him Lord of House Seaworth, if his brother had won the war. If they didn’t need to flee across the Narrow Sea. If Davos wasn’t given the task of finding the oldest of Robert Baratheon’s bastards in Flea Bottom and be a smuggler one last time. _I wasn’t made to be a Lord anyway. I was born in Flea Bottom. Let me raise a bastard to a king. More fitting for my good fingers._

That was all three days ago, before they had split off from the rest of the Golden Company. This was going to be the night that Gendyr took his “point of the spear” and wedged it into Khal Drogo’s khalasar. By tomorrow he would have reached Vaes Dothrak, the closest thing to a city the Dothraki would ever have. Gendyr had to kill Khal Drogo on the open field, or he would not earn the khalasar. He would just be an assassin. It had to be tonight.

They had taken two hundred riders, all mounted on their coursers, and one hundred-fifty archers. The remaining seven hundred was made up of foot soldiers and spearmen. Gendyr had left all sixteen of the Company’s elephants behind. They were too slow for what they needed to do. Those elephants, along with the remaining nine thousand of the Golden Company had marched towards the Tree of Crowns. Jorah had been given command of the Company while Gendyr went on his “horse hunt”.

And Davos was there, in the shifting grasses of the Dothraki Sea, with no torches to light his way. He felt the phantoms of his fingers twitch, and he clutched at the bag of his finger bones that hung around his neck. They waded through the glasses until there was a hand was raised, and the Company was hushed. They stood atop a hill, and below them were tents and the smell of horses. Hundreds of tents that stretched out for leagues. Davos couldn’t even see the end to them.

He did however see one tent, larger than all the others, surrounded with spears that were thrust into the ground. He knew to which Dothraki that tent belonged to. The man whose head Gendyr needed to sever to get his horde. _Or we’ll all have our heads lined up on Dothraki spears._

“Go,” spoke Black Balaq. Davos turned and saw the archers form behind the spearmasters and the sword dancers. The Sumer Islander was the only Commander that Gendry took with him. His feathered cloak was all black in the night, but in the day it glowed with a green and orange hue. There were few things Davos desired, but he did want a cloak just like that. Black Balaq laughed when Davos asked of its origins. “Of my own making.” Just like his position now. He rose from a simple grunt to being one of the Company’s most desired leaders.

A squire, a boy of three and ten, arrived with a torch. He lit the ground aflame and the archers dipped their arrows into it. They were nocked and raised high.  Black Balaq gave no order for them to fire, but the archers loosed, and flames lit up the dark sky. The sky was orange with their arrival, a thin trail of smoke the evidence of where they flew; the arrows fell on the khalasar.

The chargers followed. The two hundred riders rode forth, their mounted squires close behind, their swords and spears brought forth. The Dothraki had just begun to realize they were besieged when they were being run over and slashed through. Davos heard the echoes of drums.

The surprise was over. He drew his sword, and he heard the clanging of seven hundred other blades and spears in the night air. “Ho!” roared a serjeant. “Ho!” They marched together, they ran together, their footsteps united together. This was the discipline of the Golden Company. _And unlike the Unsullied, they didn’t need their cocks to be sliced off for it._ Some of the men wore a necklace of golden skulls around their necks, and they clanged and beat against each other. _Drums of a different kind_ , Davos thought to himself. His five good fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

They swept down the hill. The essence of the Dothraki’s strength was the sheer number of them. They would wash over and crush their prey. Comparing them to locusts was not inaccurate. But the Company was a well-tended machine, fueled by discipline. The Company was on them before the hordes of Khal Drogo understood what was going on. As the Golden spearmen and riders were cutting them down and pinning them to the ground, the Dothraki were grabbing their horses and their arakhs.

Davos cut down a young man who had just left his tent, fully naked and wielding his curved sword. As the corpse fell to the ground he saw a young woman pulling furs to her naked form, shrieking and hollowing at him. He left her and her dead man behind and fell upon another who was about to mount his horse. He yelled as he managed to pierce the man’s side. He groaned and gurgled as Davos threw him onto the earth, and he dug deeper with the blade.

The Dothraki came upon them from the left and the right, but the chargers kept the howlers at bay, and the shields of the footmen kept the unmounted Dothraki from overwhelming them. They pushed aside the tide, and they marched down the path lit by the flame. It was said that death rode with every khalasar, but with every step of the Company death was turned against them. The Company would strike, and the braided bells of the Dothraki would ring their death tolls.

The pillars of smoke had reached their highest peak as they arrived at the center. Davos heard a cry, a shout and a scream, the marching orders of the Company. The spearmen had curled and Davos swerved into them. He saw Gendyr upon another Dothraki, two massive muscled forms entwined together. Blood was on them both, gashes and bruises. The Dothraki was the biggest man Davos had ever seen, his braided hair going down past his waist. With every twist and crack of his form a dozen bells rang out.

He had to be Khal Drogo. When Davos caught a glimmer of the man’s face, lined with scars, and when Davos peered into the man’s eyes and saw nothing but an abyss, he knew it was Khal Drogo. The most feared of all the Khals, who had brought a dozen cities low and forced Pentos to pay tribute to him. It was said that his son would be the stallion to mount the world, who will unite one end of the earth to the other in blood and fire. Davos knew the truth of it, as Gendyr broke himself free of the Khal and slashed in a crescent. His son would do none of those things. There would be no stallion.  The cities of the world would not burn.

Khal Drogo was a dead man.

Blood flew through the air, and Drogo beheld the wound in his chest. Blood flowed. It was not fatal, but it was said that no man could harm Khal Drogo. That Drogo was war became flesh, an untouchable and insurmountable force. He was not a man. He was a thing, of blood and bones, and he could not be hurt.

And yet, Gendyr Baratheon had just done such a thing.

The Khal said something in the Dothraki tongue, but it was all syllables and grunts to Davos. He came upon Gendyr. Gendyr swept beneath him and caught the man in his hands. He pushed him into the ground and wailed upon him, his armored fists clammering down on the Dothraki’s head. It cracked and broke, and Gendyr continue to wail.

By the end of it Khal Drogo was a ruin. Gore dripped from the Company Commander’s fingers. Gendyr removed a knife from began to cut away. Edge sliced through flesh, and the sound of bones cracking were heard. Finally, Gendyr lifted what remained of the Khal’s face high above. Davos looked around and he saw the Dothraki look in silence. Gendyr said something in their speech and the Dothraki bowed.

Davos looked to Gendyr. He remembered him as a boy in King’s Landing. Davos had taken him from a blacksmith. Were the Seven good to him, or was this a cruel jape? Davos could not be certain. But he knew that Westeros was calling to him. He and Gendyr would answer with tides of bodies to take the Throne from the dragons.

There was a glimmer in Gendyr’s eyes. Blood trickled onto his shoulders. He was smiling.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short chapter, relatively speaking. The course of events are only over the course of a few days, and the majority happens within a single night. This is essentially a filler chapter, although we are introduced to several new characters. 
> 
> If it wasn't obvious from Chapter 2, then it should be now going by Wendilla's age. Wynafryd was already pregnant in the early months when she and Benjen were wed. 
> 
> Why have the Iron Islands been so reclusive? Curious. 
> 
> Jon's chapter was expanded quite a bit from the original draft. I added in the segment that showed how he and Dany came up with the name for their new house. I originally was going to go with Frostfyre as the name, but I felt it sounded too awkward for my tastes. 
> 
> Eddard didn't even have a POV segment in this chapter, but I came up with the idea of Dany asking to dance. It seemed to fit nicely, and we get some idea on just what she aspires for her marriage. 
> 
> And if you didn't know, Gendry=Gendyr. The name change was because I imagine Stannis wouldn't want his future king to have such a peasantry name.


	5. The Lays of the Night King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Company makes allegiances. Bran comes to an understanding. A discovery is made in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/home/v-the-lays-of-the-night-king/
> 
> Well, holy crap. My apologies for letting this take so long. But this chapter was more challenging than what I expected, and I was also plagued with multiple 60+ hour work weeks. Hard to write when you are busy working. 
> 
> I also am trying to keep my Tumblr more relevant to you guys - I will be posting previews from upcoming chapters, as well as cut out perspectives. Sometimes stuff just doesn't work out. I wish I could go back in time and cut some stuff out - such as the White Harbor wedding. It really didn't do anything but inflate the page count. http://doublehex.tumblr.com

**THE WARDEN OF THE NORTH**

Men of the North were known for their stamina, and that means festivities were never a short affair. Ned had to give due credit to King Rhaegar – he had outlasted the rest of his House. Daenerys had to be escorted back by Jon, stumbling as he held to her. Prince Aegon and Sansa had left the Hall around nearly the same time, although Rodrick Cassel was the one to bring Sansa back to her room. Princess Myrcella and Tommen were little better. Ned did not care to see how long the Queen had lasted, and by the time he had left the Hall she was long gone.

_May she leave Winterfell long before the rest of the Targaryens._

“In the morning,” the King had struggled with the wine to say, “let us finalize the details. Of Jon and Dany.”

 _You must be drunk. I have never heard you refer to the Princess as ‘Dany’._ “As you say, Your Grace.”

He and Cat stumbled into their rooms. She had started laughing, for what seemed like no reason at all. “Why are you laughing?” Ned had said as he forced their door open with his shoulder. His arms were wrapped around her.

“Can a woman not laugh?” Her smile was wide. “I don’t remember a better day.”

 _I remember when we were wed_.

They stumbled into bed, Cat laughing as they did so. He remembered their wedding night. It was a quick affair, for the next day he was to ride south with Robert Baratheon. Every moment seemed to last forever. He had kept on saying to himself, that she was meant for Brandon. Catelyn was so quiet until they got to his chambers. Just as the men were about to undress Catelyn for the bedding, he had said it would be poor customs for the groom to break a man’s jaw on his wedding night.

He remembered what she said, after he had closed the doors. “You didn’t need to threaten them like that.”

To which he had replied, “I did. The only one to undress you will be myself.” And Ned remembered that was the first time she had smiled that night.

Perhaps it was the drink, but as Catelyn pulled him into bed, he couldn’t help but recall the first time they were ever in bed together. “Ned, my robes feel heavy on me. Be a good husband and unlace me.” It was such a similar invitation to their night, when Cat had laid his hands on the lace of her bodice. His right fingers had found their ways around the strings, his left coursing through her flaming hair.

“Does this please you My Lord?” she had said, her fingers around him. Ned had only grunted then. Ned remembered the words that were coursing through his mind. _Everything of you pleases me_. He didn’t say anything as he coursed through her, as he parted her legs and went into her. He remembered how her hair, so long and red like a flame, had slipped off the sides of the bed. Just as it did now, as he breathed into her neck and moved through her. All of Cat had clung to him, her fingers had clung to his wrist as he swerved into her. He had gasped and grunted and was so sloppy. He didn’t know her, and she didn’t know him. They were like strangers then, and he spilled himself before they had even begun.

But they knew each other now. They knew so much of each other. Ned knew what could make her laugh, her knew how her fingers felt against his own, the textures of her palms, how her hair felt when curled around his fingers. And he knew how to please her, how tightly she could cling to him, how to make bedding her the sweetest and longest thing he could ever do.

The bed was a mess by the time they were done. The furs were spread around the legs of the bed, and the cushions were undone. Cat laid her head on his chest, and he breathed with a heavy and steady pace. Her fingers trailed the hairs of his chest. He remembered how when they were younger, when Robb had just been born, and before the girls, she would sometimes proclaim that he was her “Wolf of Stark” after they had laid with each other. He had never asked her to call him that again, although there were days when he missed the title.

He kissed the side of her head. “We should feast more often.” He smiled.

She rolled her head towards the side of the bed. “We need to get the furs,” she said as she reached. But Ned pulled her towards him.

“The furs can wait.” And he wrapped his arms around her.

“You’ll get cold.”

“Aye, but you’ll be warm. The furs can wait.” She sighed as she laid on him. His fingers curled around her shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking,” Cat said. “About Jon and the Princess.”

“They’ll work. Daenerys has a sharp mind. And Jon is a good man.”

“He is. You raised him well. Between he, Robb and Bran, no Father could hope for better sons.”

“And no Mother would want for better daughters. Sansa is shrewd, with a smart and sharp mind. She’ll do well in the capitol. And Arya – I’ll find a match for her. A Lord that can handle her temperament.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t think there’s any man who could handle that one. She has your wolf blood, Ned. That girl would be more comfortable in rings of chain than in a gown.”

“She is a Stark, and the Starks have always endured. Jon thrived here in the North, after being separated from his home and kin. Arya will do fine, Cat.”

“But I remember you saying – back when you thought it could be Jon with one of our girls. That you could allocate a portion of the Gift.”

“It would be quicker and cheaper. Much of the Gift has been abandoned by the Watch, and it is littered with ruins. Ruins we could rise up and restore into a new hold. We could make an argument with the Lord Commander, perhaps have them allocate some taxes towards the Watch.”

“But the Gift is far, Ned. A month just to reach it. And most of the Gift is ruins because Wildlings raid it constantly. I didn’t voice my concern then because nothing came to mind. But I wouldn’t want my daughters there, and I don’t want Jon and his children there. I want them close. The Starks always need to be close.”

Ned narrowed his eyes at Cat. He reclined himself against the bedpost. “What are you thinking, Cat?”

“Restore Moat Cailin.”

“Cat,” he said with half a laugh, “Moat Cailin is almost less than a ruin. No foundations, only three large towers, and two of them are half sunk into the Neck.”

“And even today those three towers are one of the greatest shields the Neck has towards any invasion from the Southrons. You could raise the bog-“

“Which would take years.”

“-and raise the rest of the fort with it. Moat Cailin won’t be as great as it used to be, not in Jon and Daenerys’ lifetime. But it would be a start. As the Whitefyres would grow, so would Moat Cailin. And,” she said as he stabbed his chest with a finger, “you have told me a thousand times there is none you trust more than Howland Reed. Even though you haven’t seen the man in twenty years, you have not spoken an ill word of him. Jon could go to him, for advice and counsel, and he would have someone that you trust at his side.”

“That is no two-year project.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It would take a great deal many years before Jon and Daenerys would claim the Moat as their seat. Which means their sons and daughters would be born in Winterfell.”

Ned smiled. “You are just as selfish as you are sharp, Cat.”

She kissed him. “I love my family, Ned. I want to hold my grandnieces and nephews in my arms. And not just for a day. For years. And you know how much the Targaryens love to spend on themselves. Rhaegar would make restoring Moat Cailin the greatest project the North has seen in decades. And I imagine the Princess would appreciate the dampness of the Neck a great deal more than the frigid airs of the Gift.”

Ned nodded. “That is true. It’s so easy to forget what she looked like when she first arrived.”

“More fur than girl. Does it remind you of another Southron bride?”

“Yes. Of one I would never part with.” She leaned up to kiss him again.

“Now get the furs Ned. And sell this to Rhaeger in the morning.” He did as she asked, groaning as he leaned over the bed, not willing to be too far from her. He reached for the furs with his fingers, and with a groan pulled it over them both. Between the warmth of Cat and the fur, sleep came quickly.

They awoke as the sun rose over Winterfell, the warm rays slipping through the glass window. Ned slipped from Cat’s grip, slow and careful enough for her to remain asleep. He dressed and went for the Feast Hall. The servants and attendants were beginning to make their rounds, but Ned saw no sign of anyone else. He had expected to break the fast in silence while he considered how to approach the King.

Instead he had found Rhaegar in the Hall already. Before him was bread so hot steam was rolling over it; as well as a spread of blackberry jam, rashes of bacon and a soft boiled egg. Rhaegar sipped from a cup of mint tea as Ned approached.

“Lord Stark. Did you wish to have to break the fast in calmness, as I planned?”

“It is as some say, Your Grace. Great minds think alike.”

“Then let more say the words.” He clapped at against the table. “Come! Eat with your king.” _Because who can refuse their king, even one who will be my future goodbrother?_ “I must compliment your cooks,” Rhaegar said as Ned sat across from him. “Their rashes of bacon are excellent. I am always savoring for more.”

“I shall make sure they hear your praise.”

“Please do,” Rhaegar said as he sipped from the tea. “I want to make preparations for my son’s hold. I heard you were considering allocating some of the Gift towards the future House of Whitefyre.”

“I did, for a time. Would save a great deal on both time and money. Many of the ruins could easily be raised into a respectable keep. The lands are arable, and smallfolk would flock to it if we appeal with a reduction on taxes. And if we agreed to have Jon give some of his funds towards the Watch, then I’m sure the Lord Commander would approve of the plan.”

“Sounds very appealing, Lord Stark. But I feel that isn’t the whole story.”

“The Gift is almost a month away, and is more or less isolated from the rest of the North. And the decline of the Night’s Watch is only part of the reason why the Gift is littered with ruins. Wildling attacks are frequent.”

“What if I were to send more men and supplies to the Wall, ensure the restoration of some of their keeps? Such as the Nightfort?”

“I would advise you to do that anyway, if only to ensure that your son’s fellow Northmen do not live in fear of the Wildlings.” Rhaegar nodded. “But my Lady Wife advised me on a better plan.”

“Then name it.”

“Let us restore Moat Cailin.”

Rhaegar focused on Ned. “Moat Cailin. We passed by it, I believe. Just a few spare towers, half sunk into the crannogs of the Neck.”

“And in its prime was the second greatest fortress of the North, behind Winterfell. The temperament would be more agreeable to your sister, and even today those three towers can hold back thousands of men. As Whitefyre would rise, so would Moat Cailin. It would be years of labor – far longer than the two Jon and the Princess would have in King’s Landing – but I believe it would be worth it. Worth every copper penny.”

“I imagine a great many copper pennies.”

Ned nodded, with some hesitance. “Yes. That would be a great project, perhaps the biggest the North has seen since before Aegon the Conqueror arrived.”

“I will need to speak with Kevan Lannister of this. I cannot keep my Master of Coin away from something this momentous. But I do like the plan, Lord Stark. Credit to Lady Stark, this is the type of ambition that just yells out “House Targaryen”.

“But I do wish to speak again of the Wall. I wish to visit it.”

“You are welcome to it, Your Grace.”

“I know I am. I have already allocated a hundred golden dragons to Lord Commander Mormont to revive the Nightfort. I would see the Wall restored in my son’s lifetime, and I want to inspect my investments. And I will bring Jon with me.”

“Does he have any say in this?”

“I am his King and his father. His say has nothing to do with it. He will see firsthand the true purpose the Wall provides. And I imagine my sister will accompany him.”

“And what of Aegon?”

“He can do as he wills before I return, but I know my son. He wishes to return home, with your beautiful daughter. I cannot deny him this. The people of Westeros must meet their new queen.”

_So I lose a daughter, and receive a Princess._

“We are to be goodbrothers, Lord Stark. _Ned_ Stark. So I will be a little more honest. I don’t go to the Wall just for inspection, but also for a reunion. My great uncle Aemon would have words with me.”

“Aemon?” He had heard the name before, briefly, in letters with the Lord Commander. “The maester at the Wall?”

Rhaeger drank from his tea. “The very same. So weird. He is one-hundred years old. His eyes have gone pale, and his hair is whiter than the rest of us. None remember that he once ran through the halls of Summerhall. He knew my grandfather as ‘Egg’.”

“I should go with you as well, Your Grace.”

Rhaeger hummed. “And why is that?”

 _Because I don’t trust you. You are keeping secrets, despite what you say._ “The Lord Commander has also written to me. The King-Beyond-the-Wall is stirring. In time, the North must ride to meet him.”

“As is the duty of the Warden of the North.”

_As is the right thing to do._

“Very well, Lord Stark. Join me on my voyage. I imagine I will want to depart by week’s end. Ser Barristan will accompany my wife, so I understand Bran will follow.”

“He will. He is squired to Ser Barristan after all.”

“Then allow me to hold a feast for your family. A month you have given us host. Let me thank you in this. Let me give you a path for your family to say goodbye.”

_I don’t need your thanks. You gave me Jon, and in turn his children. Both of which are worth far more than your gratitude._

“That is not needed. My wife and I would prefer quitter avenues. To say farewell to Sansa and Bran.”

Rhaeger smiled as he raised his cup. “Then let me honor you, one last time. To the Starks in Winterfell.”

 

**THE GIRL WITH WOLF BLOOD**

Arya stared into Nymeria’s eyes. The wolf would not stir from her sight. Arya narrowed her eyes, her gaze unflinching.

“Nymeria!” She raised her hand, the riding gloves held tightly in her grip. “Gloves!” She threw the gloves aside. Nymeria fetched the gloves in her maw, the leather flopping as the wolf returned to her master. Arya pulled them from Nymeria. “Good girl,” she said as she felt the fur of the wolf. Nymeria turned and saw the pile of bones and meat in a steel bowl. Arya fetched the remains of a chicken leg, strands of brown meat hanging from the bone. She threw it to Nymeria, who ripped into it with earnest.

She didn’t know how the others were training their pups. _They’re too big for that now._ A month had nearly passed, and all of the direwolves were as big as any hounds. When Jon had first laid Nymeria into her hands, she was no bigger than a puppy. Nymeria had clutched to her, desperate for warmth.

Arya remembered looking into those almond eyes, wide as a saucer.

Now Arya was worried Nymeria could tackle her. Father had warned her that these wolves were more beasts than companions. Arya imagined they could grow as big as a horse. And as Nymeria ripped into her prize, Arya saw the length of those fangs. A man without steel would have no chance.

 _That’s why I’m training you, Nym. You can only kill who I say you can._ She thought of Lady, who Sansa seemed to treat with such delicacy. Arya could not recall when Sansa had ever chastise Lady. Maybe she did it in private, but that wasn’t much better. _They’re weapons too._ Ghost had seemed obedient from the start, listening to Jon’s commands with earnest. Arya wondered how much of that came from Jon, and how much of that came from Ghost being abandoned from the start. Jon told her how he found Ghost alone, separate from the pack.

 _Don’t let Ghost be a timid thing,_ she prayed to herself. _He needs be as much a wolf as the rest._

And Bran still hadn’t named his wolf yet. What could be said of a wolf that didn’t have its own name? Arya feared that wolf would be more like to turn savage than all the rest. Even more so than Grey Wind, whom Robb allowed to run through Winterfell with abandon.

But not Nymeria. _You will be my right hand, Nym. I’m half-wolf myself, everyone says so. I know you better than anyone._

There was a knock on her door, and Nymeria jerked from her meal. “Come in,” Arya said. The door opened and Jon stepped through. He was dressed for a journey. His cloak had a dark cowl of fur around his neck and ears, and he wore a thick tunic. It was a Northman’s attire. The only hint to his father’s house was a brooch of the three-headed dragon that was pinned to his shoulder. “She won’t bite,” Arya said.

“I know she won’t,” spoke Dany. Her head peaked from around the corner. Much of her hair curled down her shoulder. Arya wondered how much time it took her to get ready “Not with Ghost here.” The white wolf stepped forward, between his masters. He looked at Nymeria in silence, whom sniffed in disapproval.

“I’ve been training her,” she says with a step in her voice. She picked up the gloves and tossed them onto the bed, “Nymeria. Gloves.”

Nymeria titled her head. Jon and Dany looked at each other, amusement spread across their faces.

“Well trained,” Dany smiled.

Arya crunched her face. “Gloves. Nymeria.” Nymeria laid down, her head resting across her paws.

“Well enough of that,” Jon said. He turned towards Dany. “Dany, the door.” She was already halfway across the room before he even spoke. “We got something for you.”

“Somethings,” Dany corrected. She closed the door with a soft hush. “One from each of us. In a way.”

“I don’t know if you two are crazy or stupid.” She giggled. “What do you have for me? Jon first.”

“As My Lady commands.” She threw a glove at him. Jon produced a long and thin bundle, wrapped in cloth and secured by string. He laid it on her bed. She felt the thing, trying to get a feel for it. A hint of what all the cloth was hiding. She could feel it; it was long and thin, and had a narrow end.

_No way. Absolutely not._

Her fingers quickly found the knot. She slipped her thumb through it, and as the string lost its grip the cloth fell away. She peeled it away and found herself staring at a sword. It was small, so thin and skinny. It was not as long as a straight sword, nor nearly as thick.

“Mikken made this,” she said. She touched the hilt. It was wrapped in a dark and boiled leather, and it felt soft in her hands. She could see herself holding it for hours, days even. It felt so light. All swords had a soft weight to them, but this one was like she wielded air. “I couldn’t mistake his work anywhere.”

Jon nodded. “You’ll have to train at this everyday. It is no toy. A shade more tiring than needlework.”

“A shade more exciting,” Arya said. She felt the groove of the blade.

“She won’t do it alone,” Dany said. “I sent Lyanna on Robb to get Ser Rodrick to train you.”

“You did what?”

“She put the fear of the Gods into Robb, is what she did. Still, Aunt Catelyn won’t dare refuse an order from Robb. Even if she will fume to see you in britches.”

“Gods help the North from you two. When you come back, Father’s men won’t know what to do with you.”

Dany shrugged. “They’ll do what all men do. They’ll fume and pout, they’ll yell and argue. And then they’ll get over it. And maybe we’ll set a few holdfasts on fire.”

“Just a few,” Arya agreed. “Wouldn’t want to go too far.”

“Oh no,” Dany said. “After all, everyone knows how we Targaryens are known for our restraint.”

Arya looked down at her blade. “Two years. It’s like you have always been here Jon, and now after today I won’t see you for two years.”

“Plenty of time for practice. When Dany and I return, I expect to be my equal. At least.”

“Got any advice for a green girl?”

Jon smiled. “I would advise sticking them with the pointy end.” Arya laughed, while Dany had a bemused look on her face.

“And while I try to teach Jon that he is no wordsmith, you get two years to come up with a name. Maybe it’s the Targaryen that I am, but every sword needs a name.”

“I don’t need two years for that. Sansa was always good with her needles. She was always better at me at everything. But now I have a Needle of my own.”

 

**THE STORMBORN**

The world became gray and dark, the thin scent of pine on the breeze a forgotten memory. She had remembered the last time she smelled pine and moss. “Come with me,” Jon said as they had crossed by the Long Lake. “And this time, Lya should not follow.” Lyanna stayed behind as Jon guided her to lake shore. Then he undressed her, first with kisses and then with his fingers. First there was the dragon brooch pinned to her chest, then the wolf that secured the straps of her gown. Then there was the dress tied around her waist. Her thigh felt prickled as the breeze swept against her.

And as he made his work, she did her part on his garments. She unbuttoned his tunic, throwing away the signs of his Houses. She untied the strings around his breeches, and he kicked them from his feet. They left a trail of discarded clothes to the cool waters of the Lake. She remembered how warm he felt against her - it made the Lake as hot as the baths of Dragonstone.

Dragon or not, she was raised as a Princess. She knew one was supposed to wait for the Seven. She could have told him to stop. “This is not regal,” she could have said, although many Targaryens had come to their wedding beds with a quickened belly. “I wanted a featherbed,” she could have whined, but that would have been an excuse and half of a lie. She would have traded half of the featherbeds in the Kingdoms for one day with Jon. She wanted Jon for ten years, and she didn’t want to wait two more. Rhaegar should hold his grandson in his arms before Jon left the South forever. She could have reasoned this was to let Rhaegar have that joy. This wasn’t because she was selfish, that her heart wasn’t beating at a thousand paces.

But those were all lies and excuses. Damn what was right. Jon was right there and willing, and she wanted him.

He entered her beneath the lake shores, water washing over them both, and she had never felt so cold and warm in her life. “Should I stop?” he breathed. The water had turned a slight red. She loved him all the more for his concern. She didn’t remember what she said, but Jon resumed the pace. She swallowed through the pain.

It didn’t last long, but they tried again soon after. And they did it once more before they rested on the lakeshore. They were entangled into each other, their forms pale and naked. Jon’s hard fingers stroked her silver hair. Guilt and excitement washed over her, and every time she looked up at Jon’s gray eyes she smiled from ear to ear.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” she remembered saying.

He sucked at her cheek. “But we did anyway,” Jon said in her ear. _Three times we did, and they were almost as good as I dreamed it would._

“But not again Jon. I don’t want my belly to swell when we come back to King’s Landing. The Court would talk.”

“Let them talk.”

“No, listen to me Jonaehrys. The Court always talks, but it is better if they don’t have to talk about us having a family before we are even vowed. They will already whisper about an aunt and her nephew joining together. The daughter of the mad king sworn with the son of the dragon that almost lost everything. Let’s not give them another avenue. So we need to play the waiting game, until I am before the Light of the Seven.”

“And then?”

“Then I’ll take you anywhere.”

That was the last time the North looked like home to her. Now it seemed half like a nightmare, a realm that belonged to the frost and the cold. _Do I have a Prince growing in me that was conceived in such a terrible place?_ The wind hollowed as they entered the Gift. These were lands entrusted to the Night’s Watch, when they were strong and able to keep them. But that seemed an eon ago. The ruins whistled as the wind passed through them. _‘You were to keep us. We trusted you, Watchmen’_ is what they said. Her garron whined at the harsh winds, but soft words and a pat calmed him down.

 _If only I could be so calm_. Even as far as the edges of the Last River Dany could see the tips of the Wall. The sight of it made her feel like something was coming. She didn’t know what it was. Maybe she feared she couldn’t keep from Jon and someone would see them. Maybe she felt they would unearth something terrible. Rhaegar _did_ want to go the Nightfort, and Bran had told her plenty of that keep’s dark history.

It seemed like an eternity since she had left the crossroads. She thought the journey would be quick, with Jon at her side, Lyanna to pass the time. She thought time with family and friends would make the days slip by. She thought being in the arms of Jon would make the weeks melt away. She was mistaken on all fronts. The King’s Road became battered and worn as they progressed, and the journey was slow and miserable. She didn’t know cold until she felt the chill of the Gift. Dribble from her nose froze on her lips, bits of her hair stuck to her neck. Layers of fur could not keep the cold away.

 _How did men live here, fight here, survive here_? She asked the wind a thousand times, and she got no answer.

The Wall loomed before them. A massive wonder of ice and stone. _And blood too. The blood of the Night’s Watch is the mortar_. The Wall was so tall it loomed above the clouds. Dany could not see where it ended, no matter how far up she craned her neck. “To think the Watch scales that every night,” mused Ser Arthur Dayne. “We should make them Kingsguard if they are so capable.”

“The Watch has greater concerns than who sits on the Throne,” Rhaegar said. And the Sword of the Morning gave no arguments.

After a week and some days, the gates of Castle Black stood before them. Rhaegar raised no banners, for they had been stiffened by the cold and chewed by moths. But the crimson and black dress of the royal train was unmistakable, and already Dany could hear cries of “Open the gates!” The wood groaned as it sloughed open, ice cracking and snow falling onto the ground as Castle Black made itself open to the King.

She had heard from Lord Stark that Castle Black was one of the smallest forts of the Watch. Dany believed him. It had hardly no walls, although a small wooden garrison surrounded it. There was a small collection of buildings that dotted across the wall and into the main yard. She saw a few towers, which daunting compared to the rest of the pitiful garrison. It looked more like a trading outpost than a castle.

There was a small procession of the Night’s Watch waiting for them. The Lord Commander waited at the front of them. Joer Mormont was an imposing man, with broad shoulders and a determined face. His weathered beard hanged at his jaw. A raven was perched on his shoulders, the bird’s feet dug into the fur of his mantle. “Corn!” it bellowed. “Corn, corn!” The raven flew off in a circle as Lord Mormont bowed his head, but it returned on the opposing shoulder.

“The Night’s Watch welcomes you, Your Grace. Castle Black is yours.”

“I accept the welcome,” Rhaegar said as he dismounted from his gray garron. “I know the notice is small, relatively speaking.”

“More than enough notice, Your Grace. We already have a small feast to warm you. And I have allocated enough chambers to accommodate the royal family.”

“My family thanks you, Lord Commander. The journey here was rough.” Rhaegar shook the Lord Commander’s hand. “Let us speak more over dinner. Can we?”

The Lord Commander nodded and he led them into the largest of the structures. “This is the Feast Hall,” the Lord Mormont said. When they entered she saw the walls were covered with shields. Wolves and dogs, bears, wyverns, trees and toads, green, purple, red and green, all of the wooden shields decorated the Hall and created a wider menagerie of colors and symbols than Dany had ever seen in all her days. _The Houses of the Night’s Watch. They are all black now, but once they had families and words._

Dany could smell something hot and savory. She saw men adorned in heavy, dark tinted overalls lay out bowls of soup. Dark beans floated to the top, and hot scent flooded the halls. Torn off portions of bread were set at every bowl. Just the mere presence of them warmed her bones. She had not known a warm feeling since they were woken by the cocking of the raven.

Well, except for when Jon would give her a small taste of affection. A stroke on her cheek, a peck on her neck. Those were almost as welcomed as the warm soup before her.

The soup was made from beans and bacon, and it warmed her like none other. _Except for Jon in the lake_. The heat went through her, and she savored every spoon. Every time she took a sip, she sucked on the liquid, let the juices from the beans press into the roof of her mouth. She would occasionally dip the dry bread into the soup, turning it moist and palatable.

It was delicious.

“Enjoying yourself?” Ser Dayne asked. He ripped through a torn off bread that was sopping wet.

“Been too long since I’ve been this warm.”

The Kingsguard smiled. “I thought Jon would be capable at keeping you warm.”

Dany smiled as she looked to Jon. “He’s more than capable.” There was a slight blush on his pale cheeks as he looked towards his father. Rhaegar, Uncle Eddard and the Lord Commander were deep in conversation. Lord Mormont seemed to have an easier time with his cups than either Rhaeger or the Warden.

Dany heard steps behind her, slow and heavy on the wood. She turned and saw a man, with pale hair and a face that was dragged down with age. Just like the rest, he was garbed in black. A multitude of chains hanged from his neck. His right hand gripped the arm of a Watchman who was so fat, Dany wondered who supported whom.

Rhaeger stood up. “Uncle Aemon,” he said with reverence. Everyone turned the man whose presence forced the King to stand.

“Rhaeger,” the man breathed. He spoke the name like it was fragile. He patted the fat man’s arm. “Come, Samwell. Find me a place beside my family.” Ser Arthur rose up and offered his seat.

“Great Uncle,” Jon said as he rose. “I am Jonaehrys.”

Aemon reached for Jon, and found his grip on Jon’s shoulder. “Ah, Jonaehrys. I remember when Rhaeger wrote me of you. ‘I don’t know what to do of him’, he said. But I think he did, in the end.” Aemon turned, his blind eyes searching. “But you didn’t bring me just your son, Rhaeger.”

Dany stood up and approached. “This is Dany-ah, Daenerys,” Jon said.

“You are betrothed,” Aemon smiled. “At the very least.”

“How did you know?” Dany asked. She looked to Jon, and he was as surprised as she was.

But the old man only smiled. He reached out for Dany and felt the roundness in her cheeks. “It may surprise you both to know, that I was young once. And a sister had fought for my affections. And she succeeded. You only had to say her name, Jonaehrys. I remember how I would say her name, how hard it was to hide how much I enjoyed saying it.

“Tell me, either of you. How many winters have you seen?”

Dany bit on her lip. Aemon reached for her shoulder but she offered her hand instead. “They said Jon and I were still living off of our milkmaids when winter came.” His hand felt hard. She could feel the bones and veins. “Jon and I knew only spring and summer.”

“Children of summer,” Aemon said. He shook his head, and Dany could feel the disappointment in his voice. “The Citadel tells me we that last year was the two and tenth year of Summer. The longest in recorded memory! But now the days are growing shorter. Every Stark is right, sooner or later.”

“And what about we Targaryens?” Rhaegar asked.

The Maester half wheezed and half laughed. “Fire and Blood. We’re right whenever there is war.”

“A war is coming,” spoke Lord Moermont. “The wildlings under Mance Rayder veer closer to the Wall.”

“I have not left the men of the Night’s Watch unattended in my reign,” spoke Rhaegar. “Gold, supplies, masons and laborers to restore the Nightfort.”

“All valuable gifts, Your Grace, but none so valuable as men to take the black.”

Lord Stark drank from his cup. “The North has always stood behind the Night’s Watch, Lord Commander. When Mance Rayder comes for the Wall, the North will be there.”

“Very gracious, Lord Stark.” Everyone turned to Aemon. “But tell me, do you know the words of our oath?” He shook his head. “It talks about being swords in the darkness, which is all very well and good. But what good is a sword without a shield? We are to shield the realms of men. So many forget the plural. Where will the North be, when all the realms need to be defended?”

 

**THE SEAWORTH**

The cold bit at Davos. They were on the Tyroshi coast. The Bleeding Tower of Tyrosh loomed in the distance. It would have been a day’s ride, if Davos had rushed his horse through the night. Two or three if he took his time.

But for Salladhor Saan, and his fleet of pirates? Half a day, maybe even a few hours. The man was a bastard, a vicious killer, but he knew the seas. Davos would know – he had smuggled for the captain a hundred times. Sea maps, gems, illegal substances whose names rolled off the tongue. And Saan had paid well for them all. The man knew gold, he knew the waters, and he knew how to spill blood. Gendyr needed all three.

Salladhor had brought four of his ships with him. There was only one that he recognized – the _Valyrian_. It was the pirate’s pride and joy, an inheritance from his ancestors. Salladhor had boasted that it dated back to the Valyrian Freehold, that it was bounded by dragon-iron. Davos didn’t believe a word of that, but he could not doubt just how fierce the _Valyrian_ posed. It was a massive ship. Davos had never seen a ship with eight sails on it, but the _Valyrian_ did.

Salladhor sat in a wooden chair, and he had two men attend to him. One rubbed at his shoulders, and by the look on the pirate’s face, the man was very good. The other held a vase of clear glass, the dark wine clear as day. Salladhor held a goblet in his fingers, the thin spine pinched between his fingers.

Davos was spartan in comparison. He did not have a chair to rest on, he did not have any attendants to pour wine for him or to release the stiffness in his neck. He just stood before him, his arms crossed behind his back. His third oldest, Matthos stood behind him. He held up the banner of the Golden Company, sans any golden skulls. Allard, his second, was by his side. Davos prayed he did not do anything rash. Salladhor had the tendency to do that.

“Smuggler,” the Lyseni said after a while. He shook his glass before he indulged himself. “How long now? Five years? Six?”

“Not too far off, Saan. Your fleet and the Company was indulged with Volantis for that business with Myr. If I recall.”

“You do,” Saan said with a laugh. “A whole bunch of dick waving with no blood to shed for it. Still, we got our pay. But now we are going to be tied together at the hip again.”

“If you agree. You already know what I want to ask.”

Salladhor drank from his cup. He licked his lips. “I do. Pirates have our spies as well. You are going to invade Westeros. Again. I’m telling you, even in exile, you Westerosi are a bunch of uncreative cunts.”

Allard made half a step forward, but Davos put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Allard gritted his teeth. “Uncreative, mayhaps. But stubborn and loyal, I think we can agree.”

“That we can, Davos.” Salladhor shook his glass. “That we can. A man cuts off half of your fingers, and you pledge loyalty to his nephew. Me, I’d be wanting to cut off his cock for payment. Still, I hear said nephew did the job for you.”

“That’s what they say.”

“And the truth?”

The golden skull was in his mind. Stern and humorless, just as in death. _Sworn to a kinslayer_ it said. “Irrelevant.” He swallowed. “Gendyr Baratheon is the Company Commander now.”

“And now he commands you all to war, and wants me to join in on the bloodbath. Me and all twenty-nine of my ships. All well-earned, well fought and plundered for, I’ll add.”

“From a smuggler to a pirate, may I say that our trade was nothing but balancing risks and rewards? And that taking Westeros from the Targaryens is sure to provide riches beyond measure.”

“Our trades are about _balancing_ the risks and the rewards, Davos. And aye, there are riches if you win. I do like the sound of Lord Salladhor Saan, Guardian of Shitheap. Has a certain ring to it. But if we lose, my head is like to be on a spike. And I like my head where it is.”

“And I’m sure you would like your head just as well with gold circlet and silver loops in your lobes.”

Salladhor nodded. “’Tis true. I am dreaming the mirage, and it is soothing. High risks befall great rewards.” He snapped his fingers. “I shall do it on two conditions. The first being you make sure I am named a Lord of some stature. Whatever that means to you Westerosi. The second being I get to plant a bastard in the princess.”

“…The Princess?”

“Is there more than one? Have your aspiring king take his pick then. I want a child of mine to be a claimant after he has passed. I would very much as a ghost like to know that I was the ancestor to a king.”

Davos shook his head. “I can promise you the lordship, but I can’t promise you any of the princesses. Gendyr needs his heir too, and he wants to make it through one of the Targaryen girls.”

Salladhor tapped his fingers on the chair. “Very well Davos. Half of my demands, the rest because of our friendship. I will see you at the Ravenns. Two weeks’ time?”

“Two weeks,” Davos agreed.

The weeks passed as the Company marched. And the Dothraki rode, with all their vigor. They swept through the grass plains of the Dothraki Sea, and they passed by Qohor and Norvos. Gendyr was certain to keep to the wilds.

“I fear Volantis. The Volantenes will jump at any sight of a khalasar. The arakhs of my Dothraki are meant for the Targaryens.” Gendyr had muttered the words on the eve before Davos rode out. “Golden men died for me to have forty thousand howlers, and I mean to have forty thousand howlers when I come to Westeros.”

A wise course of action, but it made the journey to the Ravenns a slow one. Three days after earning Salladhor’s support, Davos and his sons returned to the Company. The combined tents of the Golden Company and the khalasar had turned the encampment into a whirling maze of pavilions scented with horse shit. Naked children raced across every corner. Davos crossed paths with a hundred different cooking pits before he finally found Gendyr’s tent.

The tent was black and gold diamonds, the color of Gendyr’s sigil. The flag of the golden stag on a black field flew overhead. Davos threw open the flaps, Mathos and Allard following behind. Gendyr was bent over a table, looking over some maps. Black Balaq was aside him. Sitting against cushions were three Dothraki, although Davos knew not their names.

“Ah Davos. I hope this is a triumphant return?”

Davos approached, his boys standing near the entrance. “Salladhor has agreed to support your claim. He’ll give you ships.”

“We have a navy. Now we just need men to fill them with. We have the Dothraki and their horses, but that won’t suffice.”

“Forty thousand screamers. Ten thousand men of the Company. That’s an army if I ever saw one, Your Grace.”

Gendyr rubbed at his nostrils, his eyes narrowed on the maps. “A horde with a slither of an army. I can turn the Dothraki loose, and they can unleash chaos. But I need men that can hold the line. I need the other sell swords. We are a few week’s march from the Ravenn. At the break of dawn tomorrow, we march again.”

They rode hard when the sun broke. The Dothraki were always ahead. _They were born in the saddle. But the Golden Company was made for it._ The few hundred of the Golden Company kept a good pace behind the horse sons.  His thighs went raw and sore from the riding, red painful speckles dancing across his legs. During the nights he would see Allard pour damp river water onto his legs. A poor substitute for a day to rest.

Davos thought of Marya. It was all he could do as they marched: think of his wife with her saggy tits, and ride. She had loved him when he was just a smuggler, and that didn’t stop when he lost five of his fingers and was made a knight. She was in Bravos now, in the estate the Company gave her. She was with their youngest, Stannis and Steffon. They would be young, only seven and four. He could barely lay eyes on them. He’d have half a day before he would need to ride off again. For months on months unending.

He would sometimes think of Steffon and his curls. All of his boys were straight haired. Marya couldn’t curl her hair if her lives depended on it. And yet Steffon managed to have such curly locks he looked like a sheep.

It took them a week and some days to arrive at the Tree of Ravenns. The Company steered the khalasar from Myr and Lys. Some Dothraki were not so willing to avoid bloodshed and they diverted from the group. Only a few hundred or so. Last Davos heard from them, they were slaughtered to the man. Discipline was the mother’s milk to the Company, but lust was the lifeblood of the Dothraki.

The scaffolds and ruined walls of the Tree loomed in the horizon. The sun was setting when Davos first laid eyes on it, as they rode atop a hill. It was said that whatever Valyrian castle the Tree was, it was the tallest in the continent. But now it was just ruins, thin and spindly. Thus, why it was called the Tree. A hundred tents surrounded it. Davos could see the flags of the Second Sons, the Stormravens and the Windblown. And far off Davos could see the shining banners of the Golden Company. The wind carried the dancing of the golden skulls that were tied to the banner.

Davos rode behind Gendyr, alongside his bloodriders. Gendyr had stated he needed to take three from the khalasar as “bloodriders”, or else no Dothraki would never respect him. “Every khal has three,” Gendyr had explained under the moonlight. “They fought for the honor, and those three won the bout. Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo.”

At first Davos could not tell one from the other. They were all brown skinned and covered in blue paint. But in the weeks he rode to the Tree, he learned they each had their talents. Aggo was one of the best marksmen from the khalasar. Every day he rode out and every day he returned with deer or rabbits. Jhogo could crack a whip like no other, and Rakharo felt as natural with an arakh in his hands as Davos felt on a ship.

It was not hard to find Jorah Mormont. He was in the biggest tent in the Company encampment. The Commander’s tent was reserved for the Commander and his most chief leftenants, something Jorah could boast to. Gendyr strode forth, beneath the gaze of his uncle’s emblazoned skull. Jorah was peering over some papers, his sleeves rolled back to show the hairiness of his arms. When Davos had first met the Bear Islander, Jorah’s hair was reclining to the back of his head. Now it was so clean one could not imagine the man having any hair on his head.

“Gendyr.” The man’s voice was harsh and coarse. “I heard reports of the khalasar moving from the Grass Sea.”

“Under my command,” Gendyr moved towards a decanter of red wine. He poured himself a glass. “You are standing before the first Westersoi Khal.”

“My congratulations. Do you have an idea where to put them all?”

“On twenty-nine ships belonging to Salladhor Saan.” Gendyr shook his glass before he drank it. He finished it in two gulps.

Jorah turned towards Davos. “So you secured the pirate? How did you manage that, Seaworth?”

“It’s a wonder what a few kind words, and years of working together, can do.”

“So did you manage to secure the companies?’

Jorah rubbed at his rough face. His beard was never well kempt. “I kept them from running off, if that’s what you mean. I don’t the Stormravens, Gendyr.”

Gendyr raised his eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Their commander, Daario is his name. His hair is blue.”

Davos shared a glance with Gendyr. “Blue?” Davos asked.

Jorah nodded. “As blue as the sky. He looks ridicules, and has the swagger to match. Do not rely on the Stormravens, Gendyr.”

“I need the Stormravens.” Gendyr stirred the glass. “I need the Second Sons, I need the Windblown, and the Company of the Cat. I need them all. How quickly can we meet?”

“Tonight, if I get word out quick enough.”

Gendyr nodded. “Good. Make it so. The sooner I can take a piss in Westeros, the better. Be here at nightfall, the both of you.”

Davos found himself wandering the camp. If this were a battle, he’d walk as far from the camp as he could before he’d find a comfortable place to shit himself senseless. _This is a battle of another kind._ Jorah had given Gendyr the mercenaries. Gendyr now needs to secure them. Davos had secured Gendyr a fleet. The Commander needs to do his part and fill them with men.

“You think they will bite?” asked Allard. He poked at a campfire.

“I do,” spoke Matthos. His short cropped hair was riddled with sweat. “I believe in my King. He is the Lord’s chosen, to bring the Light to Westeros.”

Allard spat. “Not another word of your fool religion.”

“Enough,” Davos said.Allard sighed as he stared into the fire. Davos looked into the sky. “I need to get going. It’s almost time.”

“We’re going home father,” Allard said. “I know we are.”

“So do I,” he said over his shoulder. “I just don’t know with how many men.”

When they had returned in the afternoon, the Commander’s tent was sparse. Only a few men of the Company acted as guards. Now the ground around it was filled with men, in blue and red, sporting a dozen different colors and from across Essos. The banners of the Stormravenns, Second Sons and the Windblown fluttered in the air.

And just as the area around the tent was transformed, so was the tent itself. The small table overflown with maps and reports was replaced by a large table. It was simple, but beautifully made. It was adorned with food: vines of grapes, sliced bread, blood oranges, peppered auroch and flagons of beer. Rich and luxurious food, for sellswords that wanted to be kings.

Ben Plumm of the Second Sons feasted on the grapes. The dark man has a weathered face, with a multitude of small scars that race across it. He would always take his time with each grape, sucking on it as if it was a fine delicacy. And each suckle would draw the annoyed glance of the Tattered Prince, who led the Windblown. The man’s namesake was wrapped around his shoulders, the cape of a hundred colors tightened around his neck. The Prince was always staring, always listening, always peering from end of the table to the other, and rarely spoke. Between every retort from one of his fellow commanders, he would sip from his wine.

The only commander that the Prince would have any flicker of emotions for would be Bloodbeard. The leader of the Company of the Cat was decked out in flame. His hair was a massive swathe of red, and his beard is braided. Davos cannot see any inkling of flesh below the man’s twisted nose. Two massive gold coins hanged from his ears. Meaty grease hanged from his beard, and the man did little to clean himself up. Instead he would take bigger and more vigorous bites into the leg of auroch.

Whenever the Prince would look to Bloodbeard, his brown eyes would narrow and his aged lips would frown.

And then there was Daario. The Stormraven’s hair was as blue as a Myrish lace, and his beard was stained a wild gold. He looked absurd and foolish. And yet, the man was always in a smile. He leaned back in his oak chair, and his legs were stretched against the table. His fingers were constantly feeding his mouth with more delicacies.

 “A conquest of Westeros.” Daario plucked another grape into his mouth. “I remember what happened the last time a band of mercenaries dared such a thing.”

“A great deal of killing and plunder,” retorted Bloodbeard.

“And a great alliance was routed,” sipped the Prince. “A Band of Nine could not take the Seven Kingdoms. And I only count a party of six here.” Bloodbeard snorted as he ripped into the auroch leg, bits of meat climbing down his lips.

“A party of six,” said Salladhor as he tapped his knuckles against the table “and with a mighty fine fleet of twenty-nine vessels.”

“And a horde of forty thousand Dothraki,” said Ben Plumm. “I don’t recall the Band of Nine having a Dothraki horde at its back.”

“That is quite the army,” said Daario Naharis. He rubbed at his forked beard. “But the Dothraki raid with massive forces. They do not hold. They have no discipline. They do not have a line, nor the mentality to hold it.”

“Which is why you are here,” said Gendyr. “All of your companies are bloodthirsty, savage, relentless, and you know what it means to march. I have forty thousand Dothraki – and I mean to make full use of that number. But not on an open field.”

“Then what do you want from them?” The Prince laid down his glass of wine.

“To divide the Kingdoms. We will make beachhead and I will send the Dothraki in every direction imaginable.”

“Chaos,” growled Bloodbeard. “Rape and destruction will follow them.”

“And every Lord will be forced to look to his own borders. Who will answer the call of the Dragon, when he sees his own people being put to the sword?” Daario clapped. “I applaud you, Golden-man. You are utterly without mercy.”

“With such a division,” the Prince said, “the path to the capitol would be laid bare. And we have all sacked a city or ten in our days.”

“Aye, it’s a good plan. But you forgot one fucking thing.” Bloodbeard threw his leg onto his golden plate. “Why the fuck should any of us sign up with your conquest? We aren’t any gilded Westerosi knight. I don’t give half of a shit who sits on your throne. And I doubt anyone here is any different.”

“The Beard has a point,” said Ben Plumm. He wiped grease from his beard, speckled black and white. “We sell our swords. We don’t swear upon them.”

“Aye,” Davos said. Everyone in the tent turned to face him. “We sell our swords. We go from one great city to the next, begging them to take our swords.”

“There are always wars to fight,” said Bloodbeard. “Men who need to die.”

“True,” he said. “But eventually war will dry. For a day, or a year. And where will you be then? But Westeros is not like the Free Cities or the Disputed Lands. Westeros has wealth to spare.”

“That’s a great deal of gold your advisor is offering,” Daario said.

“We offer more than gold. We offer land, crops, resources for you to build a name off of. Wealth that will last. You may ask “Who is Gendyr of House Baratheon to offer such?’ And I would say, look at where he is now. He came to Essos a wet nose boy, with nothing but his name. Now he leads an army of tens of thousands. He is about to take back his home. That is not the mark of a low man.

“So, my good Commanders, you can choose to go with men of low ambition, men who just want to keep their bellies fat and satiate their dull wives. That’s your choice. Or you can go with my Commander, and fight with him. And be far more rich than any of those ambitionless men could ever make you.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. Davos could hear the braziers burn, and the wind pulling at tapestries. Then Daario Naharis sat straight. “Add the Stormravens to your armies,” he said as he smiled. His golden tooth was twinkling. “I’m tired of serving fat lords. I want to fight alongside the King of Storms.”

“You will fight for this man?” Bloodbeard asked. His eyes narrowed on Daario.

“I do. I do not count a day as lived so long as I get to slay, gorge my appetites, and love a fine woman. I imagine those lusts will be well sated under the Baratheon’s leadership.”

The Tattered Prince leaned forward. “I was once a Prince of Pentos, but I would prefer a title that did not need me to sacrifice my life for low men. To be the Lord of a House of Rags? I could fight under such terms. Gendyr Baratheon, you have the five thousand of the Windblown.”

Ben Plumm tapped at the table. “Men will not say I am a bold sellsword. But I am an ambitious one.  The Second Sons would love to become a first son of their own making. All four thousand of my ambitious men are yours, Gendyr.”

Bloodbeard grunted. “Pah, I don’t care for being better than what I am. But I do want to be paid, for a great deal of killing.”

“You will be,” assured Jorah. “All will be paid, in good time.”

“An investment,” Bloodbeard growled. “Still, I can’t think of a better investment than to be made Lord of House Cat. Very well. I will fight with you, Gendyr.”

And as Bloodbeard spoke the words, Davos felt the tensions lift. There was blaze in the eyes of the Commanders, like some fire was lit in their hearts. Davos looked to Gendyr, and he was a cool smile on him. His thick lips spread, and Gendyr laughed as he slapped at the tables. “My good Commanders – no, my _Lords!”_ He raised himself up, his chair falling to the ground. He raised his glass, the red wine spilling onto his fingers. “We are not a Band. From this day, the world shall we know we are leagued. A League of Storms! Already the wheels are turning in Westeros. Those that still swear by the name of my House are making their mark. My Lords, I promise you, by the time we make beachhead Westeros will be a maiden, ready and willing to welcome her new King.”

 

**THE BOY WOLF**

The inn was ablaze with the patronage of the Targaryens. The waitresses were earning more than their worth as they scurried from the tables to the kitchens and back again. The appetite of the royal family was a fierce thing. Puddles of mead were spread across the tables, and the crumbs of black bread were spread across it. Bran soaked a torn piece into a fish stew, the green soaking into the dark colors of the bread. The honey and the salt mixed together in his mouth, and Bran grew to the taste.

“You feast like you’ve marched through the Dornish sands.” Ser Barristan drank from a wooden cup. A drip of the watered wine trickled down his beard. “Not like you have been starving in the Prince’s company.”

Prince Aegon had requested Bran to ride with him. On occasion, Bran had to remind himself. It wasn’t with the same frequency as the other squires. Squires to Southron Lords, Bran had to tell himself. But Bran rode with the Prince all the same, and he never lacked for food or company when he did so. He was charming enough, but the formal reality was always in the back of Bran’s head. Sansa was never far out of sight, nor was her influence. _Who is more in control, my sweet sister or her charming prince?_

“It’s the fish,” Bran admitted. “Seems like forever since I’ve had some. Mother would try to have some brought up from White Harbor, but-“

“Only Lady Stark and yourself had any taste for it. I remember the last time she tried to have some salmon served. Robb was complaining of an upset stomach for the night.” Ser Barristan chuckled as he took another sip of his wine. “I’m surprised Prince Jon hasn’t taken as much of a liking to it.”

“He may have to.” Bran finished off the last of the bread. The soggy bread fell apart in his throat. “Isn’t the Princess fond of fish?”

“Fish, ale, meat pies, and a great deal other things. But I do remember that crumbed fish were her most favorite way to break the fast. Prince Jon may be leaving a stench of fish from White Harbor to his keep.”

 _Their children may grow fish scales_. He sipped on the stew, the salmon washing into his mouth with the rich flavors. He could taste the wine and the onions. “I hope it is close.” Ser Barristan looked to Bran. “To Winterfell. There is always a King-Beyond-The-Wall, and every King always marches South. When Jon answers Robb’s call, it would be good if the Princess was close to Winterfell.” 

“The Princess would look after Prince Jon’s household while he would march.”

“I know that Ser. But the Starks should always be close.” _And yet we’re all leaving. Sansa and I will be in King’s Landing for the rest of our lives. Jon and Robb will be in the North. And where will Arya go? Somewhere far away._

“It’s a hard thing Bran, to take that first step outside of your home. You have already done one of the hardest things a knight can ask of his squire.”

“Ser, what is the hardest thing?”

Ser Barristan was quiet. He was about to lift a cup to his lips when Bran asked the question, but now it just stayed there. His Ser laid the cup down, and he chewed at his lips. “Your first kill,” he said with softness. Then he turned towards Bran. “I remember my first, upon the Stepstones. He was a Tyroshi, some sellsword sworn to Maelys.” The Ser’s fingers trailed his lips. “I was on horseback. So was he. But I had a lance, and he just some curved sword. He yelled something. Or I think he did. There was so much yelling on that beach, one could hardly even tell if you did any of it. The man was quick, I have to admit. But I was faster. My lance went right through him.”

Ser Barristan turned towards Bran. His blue eyes seemed like a distant sky. “You shouldn’t think about your kills. I don’t remember all of the men I have killed. You will kill men for the good of the realm, to protect the king, to protect your family. But when the night gets quiet, I think of that Tyroshi. What if he didn’t answer the call? What if he was a little less greedy, a little less ambitious? He could have settled as a farmer somewhere. Could have found a wife, maybe had children. Maybe he could have been a merchant. Found a trade more honest than usurping a kingdom. Where would he be today, if he didn’t sail with the Band of Nine?”

Ser Barristan drank from his cup. “The first man you have to kill. That is the hardest thing you will ever be called to do, Bran. You will be filled with doubt and indecision. You wouldn’t be the first. Let it pass through you. And you will do your duty.”

“How can you be so sure, Ser?”

“Because Bran,” Ser Barristan smiled, “you Starks never settle for half measures. Trust in your Ser, who has faith in you.”

Bran licked at his lips. “Thank you Ser,” he said softly.

Ser Barristan brought his cup to his lips, and frowned as he saw the last of his wine was gone. “Ah, well, that’s enough for tonight. You coming Bran?” He turned towards Bran, who was reaching to rip some bread away in mid-motion. “Ah, well, try not to wake me when you creep into our room.” He rose from his seat. “Good night then.” Bran returned the courtesy as he dipped the chunk of bread into the stew.

With the Ser gone, Bran found his eyes wandering around the hall. Sansa was close to Prince Aegon. The Prince was all smiles as he laughed, and his purple eyes were focused when another spoke. Sansa was close to him, although she did not sit right next to him. Bran wanted to compare them to Jon and Princess Dany. But Jon and the Princess were closer than brothers and sisters, even when they were in the Holdfast. Sansa and the Prince were almost strangers – although Aegon would glance at Sansa every now and then, and say something that would make her smile. Bran doubted that every smile was genuine.

The Queen’s green eyes were always focused, as if she was a hawk seeking out prey. The golden banner of House Lannister was hung behind her. She may have given the realm three dragons, but she made sure everyone remembered that a lioness was their queen. Not far from her was Jamie Lannister. The Kinglsayer. They were brother and sister, but the Kingslayer never shot her a glance. Not even a smile. He gave his grin to the rest of the world, though. “That one smiles like a viper,” Robb had mused behind his cups one night.

Jamie’s smiles filled a pit in everyone’s stomach, while the Queen’s eyes filled everyone with second thoughts. But Tommen and Myrcella were not like that. Somehow those two had managed to escape their Queen Mother’s influence. Myrcella had always been sweet to Bran. “Ser Bran,” she had called him once, and Bran felt like his stomach did twirls. It was a good thing that Ser Barristan had called out to him, or else Bran would probably have said something stupid.

Tommen had a sharp wit, although he had no talent for swords. His mother had dragged him into the training yard one time, his protests silenced by some harsh whispers from the Queen.  He was thoroughly beaten. The Prince has no business holding a sword. A harp, though? Bran remembered hearing a lovely piece of music coming from a tower. He was certain it was from the King, but Ser had stated that Rhaegar did not bring his harp from the Red Keep.

He was quickly surrounded by other boys, squires and cupbearers. They all demanded stories of Ser Barristan. Bran did not have much to tell; for all the Ser’s exploits, he rarely spoke of his achievements. Tonight was the most that Bran had ever gotten out of the man. He honestly did not have that much to say. Still, he liked the attention, so he spread the tales out as long as he could. Like a lick of butter across too much bread. The boys devoured it all the same.

They were smiling.

He heard footsteps behind him. He turned and he saw the Kingslayer looking down on him. “So this is Ser Barristan’s squire. A month under your roof and I never had the honor.” The boys gave each other nervous glances, and they slowly left their seats. Just as quickly he had found himself surrounded, Bran found he was alone with the Kingslayer. He took his seat next to Bran.

“I should have gone out to you,” Bran had lied. Being next to the Kinglsayer was the last thing he wanted.

“No you shouldn’t.” The Kingslayer reached across the table and grabbed what was left of the bread. He took a vacant bowl that was still half-full and dipped the bread into the stew. “Ser Barristan was keeping you mighty busy. Don’t leave it to me to take a squire away from his duties. Cleaning Barristan’s chamber pot and whatnot.”

Bran took a quick glance, trying to see if there was a way for him to escape the conversation. Perhaps see the Prince walking by, or even Sansa that he could motion over. But they were on the opposite end of the room.

“Are you afraid of me, Bran Stark?”

“Afraid? Of course not, Ser Jaime. You are an honored member of the Kingsguard.”

The man smiled. “Kinguard, yes. But honored? Now we both know that is a lie.” He leaned in close. “So let us be honest with each other, since we will be seeing a great deal more of each other in the years to come. Are you afraid of me?”

Yes, if he had to be honest. He only knew the Kingslayer by reputation. A knight that betrayed his vows, that killed the king. And he was allowed to keep his position, keep his title. But not his honor. The man threw that away. And how can Bran trust a knight with no honor. Bran’s eyes were drawn to his hand, golden and socketed with red jewels. “Is what they say true?”

“That depends on who is doing the asking. Did I kill the king? Yes, I did. Right after I killed his Hand. So the title is right deserved. Say one thing of Jamie Lannister, say he knows how to kill a man.”

“So you broke your vows.”

“I broke a vow, boy. There is the difference.” His laid his golden hand across his chest. “This heart still beats yet. So I still serve. I am still here, so I do my duties. But let me ask you something, Bran Stark. What do you know of the Mad King?”

What did people _not_ know of the Mad King? That he burned people? That he was a craven and a lunatic? That he was the very worst of the Targaryens? “He was a terrible king. He burned people. He killed my grandfather and uncle.”

“All true,” Jaime said. He chewed into his bread. “And I was sworn to protect him. I was also sworn to serve the realm. How does one serve the realm while protecting a mad man? The answer is simple: you can’t.”

“Ser Barristan does,” Bran said with confidence. “He is a true knight.”

“Yes,” the Kingslayer said. “A true knight. I fashioned myself after him. I was going to be Jamie the Bold. Instead I became the Kingslayer. Muse that over your cups, Bran Stark.”

 

**THE PRINCE WITH DARK HAIR**

Father was holding her as she died.

She was quivering in his arms. Father’s hands were stained red. His eyes were shaking. “No,” he whispered. “No,” he whispered again. Like his words were steel that could change the world.

And she said his name with such weakness. “Rhaegar, promise me.” Her bed was red, and Jon could smell the copper and the roses in the air. And then she was gone, and Father was still holding onto her. His hands were shaking.

Jon felt Ghost nuzzle against his arm. He awoke, alone in his small quarters. Each member of their party were given a room in the King’s Tower. Jon remembered how the Lord Commander had apologized for the state it was in. “No King has visited Castle Black in a hundred years.” Jon believed him. The floors creaked with every step, the wind howled through the cracks in the mortar, and the doors were stiff and chipped. The blankets didn’t have as much holes as he would have thought though, and with Ghost he was able to keep warm enough. Although he did need to send the wolf to Dany on more nights than most. She always complained to Jon, softly and out of earshot of any watchman.

_She says how she wants to make the North her home, but she’ll always be a woman that was raised in the South._

Jon thought that he could try to go back to sleep, but he knew that was pointless. He never recalled a night when he managed to find sleep after seeing Mother. He got up and dressed himself, in thick leather and furs. The Watch’s cooks wouldn’t have breakfast ready. Too early, Jon decided to himself. As he stepped through the snow, he heard Ghost behind him.

The sun was a dark red as it cut through the morning sky. Layers of deep blue were mixed with the red. If this was Winterfell, Jon imagined he would start to hear the cackling of the ravens. He could almost hear one of Maester Luwin’s ravens rattling in their cages in the rookery. Mikken would be setting the forge alit, ready to mend horseshoes or smelt some nails.

The Jon heard a pounding, like someone knocking on wood. Ghost’s ears perked up, and he raced ahead of Jon across the yard. Jon followed him, climbing up the stairs and moving across the walls. As the sound of the pounding grew louder, so did the cackling of ravens. There Jon found Grand Uncle Aemon, a cleaver in his hand. Before him was a messy pile of gore and a bowl that was stained red.

Aemon looked to Jon, or the direction of Jon at the least. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Jon.”

He laid the cleaver down on the table. “It’s a bit early for princes.” He felt the railing as he approached.

“But not so for Maesters?”

“Would be, if these ravens would not be so loud. They’re more noisy than babes.”  His fingers found their way to the bowl. “Come. If you’re going to be here Prince, might as well make yourself useful.”

Jon took the bowl. Clumps of meat, all of them cut in dozens of directions, littered the bowl. It made Jon think of his own insides. As he approached the cages the ravens got louder. He pulled some of the bloody strands apart and tossed it in. The ravens flapped and rushed towards the flappy bits, and they tore it apart. Jon threw a few more in before he moved onto the next.

“How long did it take you?” Aemon turned his head towards Jon. Or the cawing or the ravens. “To not cut yourself?”

Aemon let out a laugh that was half wheezing and all cracked. “I wasn’t born blind, Jonaehrys. I also didn’t escape my mother’s womb old and wrinkled, in case you were wondering. Although that’s not to say I didn’t have a few mishaps on the way,” He raised his left hand, and Jon noticed one of the fingers were a head short. “Your Father is the same, in a way. Although he has lost a great deal more than a few fingers.”

“Father is King,” Jon said proudly. “He rescued the kingdoms.”

The Maester chopped down at the meat. “Only after plunging it into war, with some help from my great grand-nephew. Tell me Jon, what can change the nature of a man?’

Jon turned to him. “What?”

“I know you’re not deaf.” He chopped again and used the cleaver to separate the minced meat away. “Before your Father met your Mother, I remembered him as a man who always considered the consequences of his actions. Then he did something that was pleasing at first and tragic at the end.”

 _My Father was trying to save my Mother from his mad father._ Jon felt his fists clench. _My Father is not Robert Baratheon. He did not seed bastards._

“So what can do it? What can change the nature of a man?”

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know.” _Father loved Mother. He loved the realm even more._ “Love. Love can change the nature of a man.”

“Ah, yes. Love. What is duty, compared to a woman’s love? If you had to decide between Daenerys on the one hand, and peace for the realm on the other, could you choose?”

Her hair was like silver, her purple eyes like diamonds. He loves her laugh, her smile, the way the wind pulls at her hair. Her fingers interlocked with his was all he wanted in the world. “I’ll never choose. I’ll never have to.”

Aemon laughed as he chopped. “Keep feeding them,” he said as he waved his cleaver. He chopped. “How do you know? You seem so certain.”

Jon felt his teeth grate against his lips. “I don’t,” he admitted. He turned towards the cage and threw some meat in.

“It’s an impossible question, I know. It seems cruel, I admit. But we Targaryens are always being asked to choose, between our passions and our duties. Fire and Blood means more than dragons, Jonaehrys. Crowns weren’t meant to be comfortable hats.”

“So it’s duty then. Duty is the answer?”

“It can be. It certainly didn’t change Aegon the Unworthy’s nature. It just made it easier for him to plant more bastards in more bellies. But it made your Father a better man. It made him marry a woman he didn’t love, to bring security to the realm. He fathered children he didn’t want, to secure his family’s name. He was happy with just you, Aegon and Rhaenys. That’s the truth.”

“So he has no love for Joferion, Myrcella and Tommen?”

“I didn’t say that. Every good man loves all his children. We humans were made for love, after all.” He brought the cleaver down harder this time, chopping away at the hard meat. “The crown changed your Father. It might change your brother when he has to wear it. Or Gods forbid, it might even change you if it graces your brow.”

“That will not happen. Aegon will be the Sixth of His Name. He will be a good King.”

“How do you know that? The realm thought Aerys would be a good king. I received letters about how he was such a valiant knight on the Stepstones. Then there were the miscarriages, the babes that died in their beds. Lord Tywin was dismissed as Hand. Then there were the burnings.” Aemon shook his head. “I knew then that the realm did not know who would be a good king. Only until a crown is on their head.

“The Gods were good to me. They did not test my vows, when I was like this. Old, weak, and feeble. Your Father won on the Trident. You may not be so lucky. Every Targaryen faces a day when he must choose. Between honor on the one hand, and his desires on the other. Not many are like your Father, who were able to pick both and lived.”

“My Mother died,” Jon said. “My grandfather and grandmother died. Dany never knew her mother. And my Father was lucky?”

“Only in that he lived, Jon. Daemon Blackfyre wanted both, duty and honor. And we all know how that ended on the Redgrass Fields.” Aemon cut through the meat. “His brother Bloodraven chose duty over love. I wonder how much he rued it.”

“He was a kinslayer.” Jon remembered that much from his histories. “He died somewhere, out there. Beyond the Wall.”

“So they say. And what did your Father say, as to why he brought you to the Wall?”

Jon shrugged. “Just that it would be good for me. That I needed to see it.”

“And he was right. You are surrounded by men that have chosen duty over all else. Well, some had it chosen for them. Easy to choose between death and giving up all pleasures in life. But the rest took the Black willingly. And I doubt this conversation would be so easy over letters.”

“This is why I am here? To talk philosophies and my family’s mistake over scraps of meat?”

Aemon shrugged. “Or maybe you are here so I can see the next line of my family before I leave this world? Ever since Duncan spurred Lyanna Baratheon for his Jenny, our family has only known tragedy. The burning at Summerhall, this terrible rebellion, all put the Targaryens to their limits. And now I hear of you and Daenerys, and your cousin betrothed to Aegon. I want to hear how sweetly Daenerys sings to your children.

“But we dragonborn were made for duty first, not love. Let me offer some advice, Jonaehrys. The same advice I offered to Egg, before he was made king and I was shipped to the Wall. He was already a father then, and he had a good heart. But he was a boy nonetheless. So I told him ‘Kill the boy, and let the man be born.’ I have no doubt that you and Daenerys have already offered your virtues to each other. But despite the insistence of men over their cups, bedding does not make one a man. Kill the boy, Jonaehrys, and let the man be born.”

A brother of the Watch began to climb the steps. Jon and Aegon turned, the Maester using the wooden table for support. The man was short, but had a bushy hair and thick ringlets for his dark hair. “Your Highness,” the man said with clumsiness. Jon wondered if the man knew just what to call him. “Your Father - the King, ah I mean - he has summoned you. To the King’s Tower.”

“Too early for princes maybe, but not so for kings. Goodbye Jon. I will surely hear you when we break fast.”

Jon followed the Watchman through the courtyard. The King’s Tower was the most preserved of all the structures in Castle Black, but that didn’t say much. The Tower loomed, although even then it was only a quarter the size of the Wall. Jon could see bits of stone that were loosened from the mortar, and ice clung to its side like a babe feasting on milk. The Watchman opened the door, and the iron studded wood groaned.

Father was sitting in the Feast Hall, alongside Dany, Lyanna Mormont and Ser Arthur Dayne. Dany’s hair was frayed, and her eyes were slightly red. She was not planning to wake, that much was clear. That didn’t keep her from keeping her head high. Her eyes were focused. Her handmaiden was much the same, although Jon had come to expect of that from the Bear Islander. Father showed no sign that the early morning was a deterrence to him. His face was cleanly shaven, as always, and his eyes displayed no inch of weariness or lack of sleep.

Jon saw no sign of Uncle. _What would propel Father to summon me that didn’t involve Uncle?_

“I’m glad the brother of the Watch found you. Come here Jon.”

“What is this?” Jon found his place sitting across from Dany. “I know it’s too early for all you. The ravens haven’t even crowed yet.”

“Something that involves only House Targaryen,” Father said. “A matter for dragons.” Father pulled out a letter. The parchment was cheap. It did not have the elegance of something from the South. The writing was hastily written. Jon saw a wax seal on it, but it was broken. He could see no insignia.

Father cleared his throat as he opened the letter. Dany turned her head towards him. “This is a letter from Othell Yarwyck, of the Builders. It says one thing: ‘The Dragons must come to the Nightfort. We have found something.’”

Ser Arthur Dayne shook his head. “I don’t like it, Rhaegar. Why be so cryptic? This Builder is hiding something.”

“He is the man Lord Commander Mormont entrusted with my funds to restore the Nightfort. Should I not trust him in turn?”

“You should, brother,” Dany said. “He is hiding something because, whatever it is, it must be for our eyes only.”

“One opposed, one in favor.” Father looked to Jon. “I am at a crossroads. Give me your thoughts Jon. Is this a trap or an invitation?”

Jon sucked on his teeth. That was not hardly enough information to go on. Who was Othell Yarwyck, beyond being a brother of the Night’s Watch? It’s one thing to say your vows, but another to live it. Could House Yarwyck hold some grudge towards the Crownlands? The Lord Commander did entrust this Yarwyck with the restoration of the Nightfort, and Lyanna’s uncle did not strike him as a poor judge of character. And if he did find something, then there would be reason for him to say as little as he did.

But if that was the case, than what did the Night’s Watch find in the shadows of the Nightfort? The thought pulled at Jon. His Uncle would have advised caution. “There are no bold and old knights,” he had once said. He thought of the boldness of his Uncle Brandon. If his Lord Uncle were here, he’d have sided with Ser Arthur. There was no doubt.

 _Kill the boy_. Aemon’s words echoed in his head. His thoughts turned to Daeron the Young Dragon. So many stories were read to him of the man that conquered Dorne. “For a single summer,” Viserys would sometimes remind. But that didn’t stop Jon from proclaiming himself that he was the Dragonknight as he would play in the gardens with Dany.

“We should go,” Jon said. “There is something waiting for us at the Nightfort. There is a reason you wanted that keep restored, Father. Builder Yarwyck may have just found it. And the Lord Commander would not have raised him to this task if he was untrustworthy.”

Ser Arthur turned to Father. “You’ve already made your decision.”

“I have,” Father said. “But it is good my son and I are of one mind. Arthur, make the preparations. The Nightfort is a day’s ride from here. I would see us on the road by mid day. I owe my uncle at least one more meal with him.”

It was not long after that they broke fast, with the return of the bean and bacon soup. That was how the Night’s Watch greeted them, and that was how they bade farewell. As he sipped Ser Arthur leaned in close. “Prince, what was it that made you favor this?”

“Don’t you want to know what they found?”

“I also prefer to keep your royal heads attached to your royal shoulders. Do not forget that I am Kingsguard. If I keep you alive by making your lives a little more boring, then so be it.”

“Ser, with all respect, when have the Targaryens ever favored a boring life?”

The knight smiled. “I was hoping your mother’s blood would favor the day.”

“By all accounts, Ser, my mother had the wolf blood in her. Boldness is what drove her life.”

Ser Arthur nodded. “That it did, My Prince. Enjoy the soup. I think you’ll favor the heat over the next few days.”

And he was right. By midday the Targaryen train was on the path again, traveling through the cold sludge of the Gift. Jon was used to the cold, but even the frosty winds chewed at him. Dany had abandoned her destrier in favor of the wheelhouse, padded with furs and leather to keep the frost away. Jon wondered if Aegon would have managed any better. Father managed to resist such temptations, as he led the front atop his steed. He still clawed at his silvery hair, picking out bits of frost that clung to it.

They had made camp as the sun begin to set. Dany and Lyanna had joined Jon in his tent. She was wrapped in layers of wolf and fox fur, and that still couldn’t keep her cheeks from becoming red as a rose. There was a prepared pot of steaming water waiting for her. Lyanna dipped a comb into it and weaved through Dany’s hair.

“Not finding the North to your liking?” Dany shot him a glare of purple fire.

“There is the North,” Lyanna said, “and then there is the North. Some say the first Bran gave the Gift away because nobody else wanted it.”

“Then Bran the Builder was a wise man,” Dany said. She let out a puff of cold air. “I can’t wait to return to King’s Landing.”

“A nest of adders,” Jon said. “What happened to you wanting to make the North your home?”

“I meant it. Every word. But King’s Landing is where we were raised Jon. That will never change. I miss the feel of the sun on my skin. But if we are meant to live out our lives in the North, I will make it work.”

“One of these days,” Lyanna said as she combed through the braids in Dany’s hair, “you will have an opinion on something that is not Jon, and you will stick to it.”

“And what opinion was that, Lyanna?”

She diverted her attention from Dany to Jon. “Being hopelessly and stupidly in love.” She returned to her work. “Such as what you did at the Last Lake.” Dany and Jon shared a glance. “You two are not subtle.”

Dany rubbed at her eyes. “Just one more thing to worry about when we go back to the South.”

Jon leaned back into his chair. “Let’s just hope we actually find something at the Nightfort. The Court will be wondering why we went there in the first place. They’ll be terribly disappointed if it only served to give you some shivers.”

She ignored the jape. “What do you think we’ll find there?”

Jon shrugged. “Maybe the remains of the Rat Cook.” He smiled, but then he noticed that Dany kept a still face. “It’s just a story, Dany.”

“But all these stories about one place. The Night King, the Rat Cook, the Seventy-Nine Sentinels. Probably more that Bran didn’t hear from Old Nan.”

“Unlike you Targaryens,” Lyanna said, “we Northmen know that stories are just stories. Not like we have wolf dreams.”

“Yet those dragon dreams saved my family from the Doom,” Dany smirked. “So pardon me if I have more faith in stories than either of you. There’s something in that place Jon. In my bones I know it.”

They had reached the Nightfort by the mid of the next day, as the sun was cutting through the grey sky. Jon knew that the Nightfort was the oldest of the castles of the Wall. It was rebuilt a thousand times over. Perhaps even more. But that didn’t stop his disappointment at what he saw on the horizon. Just thin skeletons of towers and walls. He imagined something darker, more immense. _Like stones of dark glass. Or perhaps just a big floating skeletal head._ This seemed far too ordinary and humbling for the grave of the Rat Cook or the Night King’s throne.

He thought of Dany. Castle Black offered a few of the Southern hospitalities. The Nightfort would give up none of that. It was a grim, grey place.

As they rode towards the Nightfort, Jon could hear the echoes of men at work. Men sawing at wood, chisels beating away at stone, workhorses pulling and heaving away, masons ordering their workers in one direction or the other. But when they came into view, the Nightfort was cast in a silence. “Make way for the King!” announced one of the heralds. And the men of the Night’s Watch looked on, as if they were bearing witness to a ghost.

They were approached by a man who was just as much dressed in his beard as he was in his dark furs. The man was thick jawed, and his white beard was curled and spiraled down onto his chest. His hair was a loose mane of gray that touched his shoulder. Strapped to his chest were a gallery of hammers.

“Othell Yarwyck,” the man said with a hasty bow. “If it pleases, Your Grace.”

“It does, Othell Yarwyck.” Father dismounted from his horse. “I got your letter.”

The man chewed on his lips. “Good. If you would follow, Your Grace.” The Builder rubbed at his whiskers. “We head towards the Wall.”

“The Wall?” Ser Arthur unstrapped his sheathed sword from the side of his mount. 

“I will explain as we walk, Ser-”

“Arthur Dayne, of the Kingsguard.” Father said the words with pride. Othell mouthed ‘The Sword of the Morning’, and Jon saw that the man’s eyes widen.

“This way, My Lords. You need to see this.” They followed him in his hurried pace. “We were cutting through the Wall. So much of the old fort was rotted and sealed in the ice. It was a necessity. Cut out the old, install the new.”

They moved through a rough circle in the Wall, the edges cracked. Shards of ice littered the ground. Towering above them were wooden foundations, created to keep the stone and ice from falling on top of them. Jon kept a large swathe from the ruins of blackened and decayed wood that were scattered across the path.

“But as we dig, we noticed the ice was softer. More manageable, easier for us to cut.”

“Why continue the dig?” Dany asked. “You did root the decayed structures, right?”

“For the most part, My Lady. But I felt the need to explore. If nothing else than we would need a new tunnel. Our predecessors had left us one, but it was sealed by rock and frost. Far more costly to unearth that than it would to fashion a new one.”

Ser Arthur looked at the carved ice. He had the look of mild disapproval. “I hope you didn't summon the King here just to say you found some soft ice.”

“No, My Lord.” And Othell turned in a half circle towards them as he raised his torch. “It was for this.” And the light raced across the ice, over the cracks and waves. Over the bones, long dark and terrible. The sharp claws, and the teeth as long as daggers. The formation of wings.

“Dragon bone,” Jon whispered. He looked over what he was seeing. Scattered in the thickness of the ice was the remains of a dragon, the bones as dark as the night’s sky.

“This is not possible,” said the kingsguard. His voice was shaking. “Dragons were of Old Valyria.”

“And the Wall is tens of thousands years old,” Dany said. But that didn’t change what they saw before them. The corpse of a dragon embedded within the frozen remnants of the Wall.

“You must remove this at haste,” Father said. “If you need more funds, I will provide it. If you need more men, I shall find them. But these bones must be returned to King’s Landing.”

“If that is your will, Your Grace. But there is more.”

 _What else could there be? Greater than a dragon in the Wall?_ Jon left the questions unsaid. Father and Ser Arthur shared a surprised look with each other before they followed the Master Builder. They made their way through the carved tunnel. The ice sweated around them. Jon felt a few icy drips on his neck.

Jon could no longer see his breathe. Dany didn’t shiver. His boots were stepping through puddles.

The tunnel of ice receded, the frozen traces given way to stone and mortar. And before them stood a door as black as the dragon bone. Jon wanted to say it was steel, but there were ripples in it, like waves of color. Jon remembered seeing marble in King’s Landing, a brilliant white stone that artists could craft art out from. The door reminded Jon of such, except the white was replaced by a deep dark.

“What lies beyond that door?” For the first time, Jon felt uncertainty in Father’s voice. For the first time, Jon truly didn’t know what could happen. He gave a quick glance to Dany, but she was utterly focused on the door.

“I do not know, Your Grace. I could not convince any man to touch it.”

Ser Arthur breathed. “What could put so much fear into a man of the Watch?”

Othell laid his hand on the door. His palm had a faint dark stain, like someone had spilled ink on it. Uneasiness filled the air. Jon looked at the door, of dark and rippling stone. He had the urge to take Dany and run.

Father stepped forward. “Rhaegar!” Ser Arthur called out. His protest went ignored. Father grabbed the large iron rings and pulled. He groaned as he anchored his feet into the earth. Dust trickled down from the ceiling as the door grated against the earth. Then it began to peel away, a thin slice of air between the stone. Father slipped his fingers between the crack, and Jon saw they were dripping with a inky liquid. Father pushed the door away. Finally the way was clear. The entirety of Father’s arm was coated in the black substance.

“The way is clear,” Father said as he breathed. Sweat trickled down his face. “Let’s see what else there is.”

“After me,” the Kingsuard said. He moved ahead of the rest, his fingers already wrapped around the hilt of Dawn. “Letting you touch that door is the last stupid thing I let you do today.” He unsheathed his sword, and it was as pale as moonlight. The light from the torch seemed to dance around it. It was Dawn of Starfall, a blade as fabled as any Valyrian sword.

Jon went forward after Father and Ser Arthur Dayne. Seeing the Sword of the Morning in all its glory, with Dawn in his hand as he stepped into the darkness, removed all shadow of doubt from Jon. He heard Othell step behind him, the torch illuminating the walls.

He motioned his fingers. “Ghost, come.” He heard nothing. Jon turned and saw Ghost would not move. His teeth were bared. “Ghost to me.” The white wolf would not stir. His red eyes were transfixed on the stone. Jon sucked on his lips. “Wait here for me, Ghost.” He did not know if the wolf acknowledged the command. Ghost remained in silent opposition. To whatever was beyond the stone door.

Jon crossed beyond the door. He did not feel cold anymore. He could not feel a dampness in the air, or hear the sound of ice crying onto the ground. Instead he felt his boot crush into a ground that was firm. The walls around him were formed from stone and earth. It was a cavern, and the light from the torch was scattered across the walls. The ceiling was curved. Jon could see traces of frost just on the very edge of the door, as if stone was the division between ice and rock.

Then he heard something comparable to the cracking of ice. Jon looked down and he saw he had stepped onto something. He leaned down and picked it up. It was smooth and black, and Jon could see ripples in the stone. The black shard glistened in the torchlight.

“Obsidian,” Dany said. Her violet eyes were wide, and Jon could see his reflection off of the black shard in the torchlight. Dragonglass was the other name for the black rock. It went unsaid. Othell lowered his torch towards the ground, and Jon could see the cavern floor was littered with obsidian shards. They were all scattered in a hundred different directions.

Father stepped forward, Ser Arthur leading the way. Jon quickly stuffed the obsidian into a pocket. The thin light of Dawn and the torch led the path. Jon looked at the walls, and he could have sworn he saw markings. Or the remains of them. The lines on the wall were eroded, and whatever they could have said were gone and forgotten.

Then the light came upon the dark earth of the cavern floor. The shards of obsidian came to a sudden end, just as quickly as the ice could not pierce the stone door. Ser Arthur raise up Dawn, and the milkish light pushed the last of the darkness away. And Jon saw a pedestal of rock raised up at the far end of the chamber. He saw nestled on it were three large, oval stones. One was covered in silver and white lines, the other was covered in speckles of green. And the last was the largest of them all, was as dark as the night sky and was lined a dark crimson. 

Jon heard his Father suck in a breath. He gasped as he stepped forward. His hands were shaking. Father swallowed. He almost stumbled as he approached the stones.

“Jon,” he said. His voice was uneasy. “Daenerys. Get over here.” Jon looked to Dany but she was already halfway across the chamber grounds. He followed after her.

“Rhaegar, are those-”

“Yes, Arthur. Jon, this is yours.” Father lifted the orb that was creamed and golden, and layers of dust cascaded from the ridges. He laid it at Jon’s chest, and he had to wrap his hands around the stone to support it. It was not as heavy as he had thought it would be. He thought it was pure stone, but it must have been hollow at the center.

Father laid the green and speckled one at Dany, who wrapped her arms around it. “That shall be Rhaenys’. And this one,” he said as he laid his hands on the black and crimson rock, “is for Aegon.”

Jon felt the ridges of the stone. The torchlight beamed over it, and he saw the gold dance alongside the illumination. His fingertips tickled with heat. “Dragon eggs.” He looked to Father. “These are dragon eggs.”

Father nodded in confirmation. “Yes they are.” Jon looked to Dany, and he saw her eyes were glistening. Her hands were holding the green egg with tenderness, her finds tracing the white ridges. There was a smile on her face.

Jon looked down at the egg in his hands. His egg, Father had decided. Dragons were fire and death. They made the Seven Kingdoms. But Jon could only fear a strange fear tugging at him.

“Three eggs,” Father said as he lifted the black and red egg from the pedestal, “for three children. It was always meant for you, I think. For you and your sister. The Dragon has three heads.”

Jon could not understand what Father was saying. But he looked into his eyes, those deep violet eyes, and he saw no reservations. There was a confidence in those words that Jon had never heard from Father before. Jon could hear no tinge of regret.

He looked into the black and red egg, and he could only be afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a small amount of smut this chapter. I really felt it was the right time for it though - and we can agree its not on the scale of what GRRM would do. No "damp Myrish swamps" here, at the very least. I tried to put less emphasis on the sexuality of it and more on the emotional feelings of the characters. Especially between Ned and Cat, I wanted to show how their relationship has evolved over the years. I felt a little troubled with balancing between Ned's flashback to his wedding day, to the present, but I felt I did a competent job with it. 
> 
> I was really satisfied with the tone of the Bran chapter, overall. I wanted to show Ser Barristan teaching Bran about more than just the gallant side of being a knight. A knight kills, and that is not something we can avoid. And we have Bran meeting with Jamie for the first time - and not for the last, I promise you. He is going to be surrounded by two knights of renown, and both have different perspectives on just what a knight is. Should be interesting to see what happans to our Young Stark. 
> 
> Now, let's go to the Jon chapter. This was a doozy to write. Not just because of its length, but because I felt I needed to jam pack it with alot of material. I needed to remind you guys that Jon has dreams - and for some reason it only involves the death of his mother. Is it a dragon dream? A wolf dream? A green dream? We know from the canon that there are several different kinds of foresight that are established in dreams. 
> 
> We also get to see established the core theme of the story - "What can change the nature of a man?" Those of you with good taste will recognize that this is taken word-from-word from Planescape: Torment, one of the best stories every told within gaming. It had a profound impact on me as a writer. So much so I wish to get the phrase tattooed on my arm when I publish my first story. 
> 
> The eggs were found at the Wall. Why? In canon, Illyrio Mopatis told Dany that the eggs came from Asshai. We know the shadow city is a place of power, or a location where magic is strongest. The Wall is another place of power, as stated by Melissandre in A Dance With Dragons. It seemed only fitting that we would find the Three Eggs within the frozen embrace of the Wall.


	6. The Dragon's Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King approaches the capitol. His family conspires with each other. Ned puts his trust in Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/home/vi-the-dragons-court/
> 
> First off, apologies for making this such a short chapter. Consider it karma for last chapter being the largest by far.

 

**A SMALL MAN**

Tyrion was raptured from his sleep by three knocks. It was the first knock that woke him. _That had not be a messenger_. The second knock forced him to raise his head. _The world is a cruel and unforgiving place._ At the third knock he was dragging himself off from the pile of books and scrolls he had slumbered against. _And I am fully awake to bear witness to it._

He was rubbing the crust from his mismatched eyes as he opened his chamber door. The boy had to be no more than three and ten, and was dressed in the Tyrell colors. Green and gold, almost as shining as his hair. _Surely a second or third cousin to the lovely Tyrells. ‘Growing strong’ indeed._

“The Prince,” the boy spoke timidly, “has requested your presence in the gardens. He has offered an invitation to feast with him for midday lunch.”

And that was how Tyrion had found himself in the gardens of the Red Keep. Aegon was lying along a couch, as was typical of the dragons, feasting from a bowl of sugared strawberries. He was dressed in a red and gold doublet. “Ah, gooduncle. Good to see you. Come and eat. The berries are delicious.”

“You act as if I was not invited, my dear prince.”

“You act as if it matters. Come and eat with me.”

He couldn’t refuse a prince’s invitation, even if he was family by marriage. So Tyrion found his way onto a coach that was across from Aegon. A servant came with a silver bowl carved with dragons, filled with white speckled strawberries. Tyrion popped one into his mouth, and his tongue was overwhelmed with sweetness.

“Are you not curious why I invited you to eat with me?”

“I am in no rush.” He leaned on his hand as he wiped sugar from his lips. “I suppose you just enjoy my company. Although some might question the Prince that enjoys a dwarf’s company.”

“Let them question. What other Lannister am I to call upon? The company of my goodmother?”

“You would enjoy Balerion the Dread’s company more than that of my dear sister’s.”

“At least I would be tempted to ride him.” Aegon ripped through a strawberry. “How are you enjoying the capitol?”

“The food is more refreshing. A great deal more sweets and honey than my Lord Father would permit. The heat is something dreadful though. Say one thing about Casterly Rock, say that you don’t wake up with sweat behind your ears and your head against a damp pillow.

“But beloved nephew, do not tell me you brought me here just to ask how my stay is. After all, you have been home for several new weeks. And with a gushing new bride to boot.”

“Betrothed,” Aegon insisted. “The wedding won’t be for years.”

“Is there much a difference amongst you Targaryens? I’m sure your brother is already ahead in that regard. You may have become an uncle and not know it.”

Aegon smirked. “And he is betrothed to the love of his life. Some things are permitted. Some things are forgiven.”

“But not forgotten.” Tyrion waged his finger. “There is already talk that mayhaps the wedding will have to be accelerated.”

Aegon shook his head. “Let them talk.  My Father will have his two years with Jon and Dany. And I would as well.”

“Now that is a curious thing. I thought you would be eager to see Prince Jonaehrys on his merry way. You get that uncomfortable chair all to yourself.”

“You truly don’t know me, Lord Tyrion. Jon is my brother. And more so he is loyal and devout to his family. I learned that much in the month I spent in the North. He will not leave my side. I need him with me.”

Tyrion’s eyes opened in shock. “Is that true brotherly love I hear?”

“It is a Prince knowing he has found whom he can trust. It is a rare thing, and I do not plan to let it slip through my fingers.”

Tyrion scratched at his face. “You seem so sure of this, when I recall your Father declaring your brother and aunt for the North.”

Aegon waved his hand dismissively. “The North has their Pact. I am betrothed to Sansa Stark. The Targaryen line shall have the blood of the dragon and the wolf. That is enough. I will have my brother at my side. I may see fit to make him Hand.”

“All well and good, Prince, but words are wind. And I recall your Father having other ideas.”

“And what is to stop me from summoning Jon and his family to the capitol when I am King of the Kingdoms? Who is to say that I cannot name the brother I trust as Hand? I have years before Jon and Dany will be wed. I have years to instill in Jon the idea that I need him far more than the North.”

Tyrion’s fingers locked with each other. “Interesting proposals, but why spill it all out now? Not like I can do anything about it. I am not particularly motivated on who you name Hand.”

“Because I trust you, gooduncle. I would have you befriend Jon. Help him understand the ways of the court.”

Tyrion reached for a glass, the harbor held up by bronze dragons. He lifted the glass up and a servant arrived to fill it with brandy. “To usher him into the ways of the court?”

“And to befriend the man that will oversee the restoration of Summerhall.”

Tyrion choked on his brandy. “I think you have found the wrong Lannister. A lifetime of spending an unending stream of wealth had not prepared me for managing it.”

“Not at all. Should I go to your uncle Kevan? The Master of Coin has my Father’s ear, and will not continue without cause. But you have a reputation, Lord Tyrion. You have exuberant wealth, and you love to use it. And I have a reputation as well – one of great aspirations. Together. It would be assumed a Lannister was boasting his wealth and a Prince was making a name for himself.

“Who would suspect that Summerhall is the key to Jon’s loyalty?”

“Your Father, who I should remind is the King and Lord of the Realm.”

“And by the time he comes to such suspicions, if he ever would, Jon will be in my good graces. I will have invited him to my side a thousand times. We will have hunted a dozen, shared wine and brandy and wine. Jon’s love will be in my pocket, and his loyalty along with it. And Summerhall’s restoration will be well underway.” Aegon smiled. “My Father, Lord of the Realm as you say, will be able to do nothing.”

_This Prince is not just named after Aegon. He is the Dragon come again. Rhaegar should be fearing his son, rather my lovely sister._

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to accept, My Prince.”

“Excellent,” Aegon said. His violet eyes grew at the sight of servants bearing a pig’s head. “Ah, the pig has arrived.”

 

**THE BOY WOLF**

The luxuries of King’s Landing did nothing to slow Ser Barristan in his training. If anything, the Ser only seemed encouraged to up the scales to compensate.

“The King will be having his tourney in the weeks on his return,” Ser Barristan said as he walked around the dummy with a casual pace. “Raise your arm higher. Straighter. Thrust. Good. By the time your royal cousin arrives, I would see you fit for the melee.”

Granted Bran would not be allowed to compete. Even if he had been squired to Ser Barristan for five years, and would still be expected to join him on the field, tourneys were a different matter. Battles demanded necessity, while tourneys had excuses for participation. Bran couldn’t help but feel bitter. He had been trained by Ser Rodrick since he could hold a sword. He could probably thrash anyone in a melee.

But Ser Barristan was insistent. “You are only five and ten, Bran Stark. You will have your time.”

 _But you were three and ten in your first tourney._ Bran wanted to trust in his Ser. But moments like that made it hard.

“That’s enough for now Bran. I have business to tend to.” Like looking after the heir. “And I believe Prince Tommen has been asking for you.”

 _He has? What would Tommen want with me?_ “Why have I not heard about this until now?”

The Ser scratched at his beard. “Probably because I didn’t want you to. Princely invitations are distracting. But he has become insistent, and the only thing more distracting than a royal invitation is ignoring one.” _Especially when the Prince’s mother is Queen Cersei._

“If I were you Bran, I would wash up before going to the gardens. Prince Aegon may humor your dirt and grime, but Tommen is a more regal soul.”

He and his Ser parted ways, and Bran rubbed himself with rose waters. Bran found it weird how everything had a smell in King’s Landing. From the pools of water to even men’s hair. They oiled it in the South, with such a thickness that some of the darker hair glowed and gleaned. Bran was thankful he had the red hair of the Tullys. Otherwise he worried his hair would shine as much as Ser Barristan’s helmet.

Wearing a blue tunic with the wolf sigil planted to his chest, he found his way to the gardens. Some of the servants recognized him and directed him towards Prince Tomment. _Or they were waiting for my arrival._ He found Prince Tommen waiting beneath the shades of a canopy, one foot dangling into a pool while the other was leaned up against him.

“Ah Bran. I swore I asked for you a week ago.” _If I was summoned, I would have been brought here by men in armor and spears. Not by men in soft robes._ The Prince waved the servants away, and with a bow they departed. Bran was alone with the Prince.

“Ser Barristan keeps me very busy, Your Grace. The Bold is relentless in his training.”

“Let me tell you, the capitol was abuzz when we learned you were made squire to Ser Barristan. My Mother was furious.”

“What for? Why does the business of a Kingsguard halfway across the Realm matter to the Queen?”

Tommen held back a laugh. He smirked instead. “Anything that involves a Kingsguard involves my mother. Did you know that Ser Lewyn has a paramour? My mother does. She wanted my brother to be given a knighthood under one of the Kingsguard, but my Father refused. He refuses her a great deal.”

“Is she watching me?”

“I imagine so. I imagine she is watching us right now. My Father may rule from the Iron Throne, but my mother watches with all her eyes and ears. But it was no secret how furious my mother was when she learned of Daenerys and Jon.”

“She learned about the marriage before Jon and the Princess? Before my Father?”

Tommen pointed his finger. “Betrothal, not marriage. There’s a difference.” Bran frowned. _Don’t tell Jon and the Princess that._ “This was a good month before we set out for Winterfell. My sister and I wondered why my Mother howled so. More wolf than lion, if I say so.” _The Queen is no wolf. None of my family would ever look at a guest the same way Queen Cersei looks at us._  

“Prince, may I be bold?”

Tommen shrugged. “Bran, we are not in court. Let us be friends. Speak as you wish.”

“Fine then. Why the hells did you bring me here? To tell me just how cruel your mother is? I already knew all that from Jon.”

“I was offering a token of wisdom. I know what I am. I am the last son. As are you. You were fortunate in becoming the squire to a Kingsguard. What do I have?”

“I hear you are good with the harp. I think I heard you once.”

Tommen smiled. “You are kind to say so. Everyone says how lovely with a harp I am. But nobody will ever cry when I sing. I am half the singer and poet my Father is. And I am not a swordsman. I wouldn’t know what to do with a sword or lance if my life depended on it.”

“You could learn. We all had to learn.”

“I could. But I would be a middling swordsman at best. Soft as milk, as my mother says. And war memorials are filled with the names of middling swordsmen. Best to be no swordsman than a middling swordsman.

“But I must be something. Don’t wish to end up like how Aegon the Fifth treated Aemon and sent him off to the Wall.”

“I really don’t see how I can be involved in all this. I suppose I am what you’d call a middling swordsman. Not like I can make you not be the last son of the King.”

“No, but you can have someone who knows the court. I grew up in King’s Landing. Let’s say I am a people person. But everyone in King’s Landing has bodyguards. My Father has _seven_. You wouldn’t know what to do with all the courtesies and flatteries if _your_ life depended on it.”

“So if you can’t fight, and you don’t want to go to the Wall, what will you do?”

“I’ll read. And I’ll learn. Just as my Uncle Tyrion does. But instead of using it for petty wits, I’ll make sure I am the most important man to my brother. The most indispensable man in all of the Kingdoms. I will be his Hand. Or his Master of Laws, if he’d prefer. But I want that pin on my robes. And I need someone to watch my back.”

“You want me to be your sword.”

“And I will be your shield. I’ll navigate you through the politics of my home, and you make sure I don’t end up bleeding my guts out. Fair trade.”

“What’s in this for me? I do all this, I am pretty much making myself a red target from practically the entire kingdom.”

Tommen smiled. “We don’t die. That seems well enough, don’t you think? And who knows? I just might get you knighted by year’s end. Any knight can knight a squire, after all. And no knight is going to refuse a Prince’s request.”

Bran liked that idea. He liked it a whole lot.

 

**THE HEIR TO WINTERFELL**

It had been weeks since Jon left for King’s Landing when Father came for Robb. “Ride with me in the midday. I will wait for you by the west gate.” Robb still had half of a slice of black bread in his mouth, the piece dangling by a clump. Theon only shrugged in response. Arya looked back to Father, his departure just as quick as his arrival. Robb found Father alone, sat astride his gray palfrey. As Robb approached Father nodded and signaled him to follow. They rode along the dirt paths, overshadowed by gray hills of the North.

“How is your mother?”

“Quiet. I think it will be some time before she begins to accept what has happened. Most of our family is gone. It still seems weird to me, having the Hall be so quiet. Like Wintefell has changed. Theon does his best to distract.”

“He is loyal.”

Loyal isn’t what Robb would have used. His brother, is what Robb would term him. Almost as much as Jon, Robb trusted Theon in all things. Robb remembered once that Father told him of Robert Baratheon, how close and understanding of each other they were. _That is Theon. My brother from the Iron Islands_.

“Give your mother time. ‘Family, Duty, Honor’ are the Tully words. Right now the first word is fresh in her mind, but the rest will find their place. When Jon and the Princess come to Winterfell, perhaps with a babe at her breast, your mother will be as if nothing happened.”

Robb chewed at his lips. “You make it sound as if Rhaegar broke our family.”

Father’s fingers tightened around the reins, the leather crackling. “Would if I could keep you all in the North forever. The Starks are of Winterfell, and the Winterfell made the Starks. Whenever the Starks march south, tragedy follows. But I also know we cannot stay here forever. We are one of _Seven_ kingdoms, easy as that can be to forget.”

A gray sky was casting over them. Robb could peer over the hills and see ruined watch towers looming in the distance, death barrows rising from the ground. The North was old. Death was everywhere. 

“The road back home was long. The closer to the Gift, the harder the land is. It was only once I actually saw the land did I see how folly it would be to give it to Jon.”

“I heard it was Mother that made you swear Moat Cailin to Jon. And made you swear the King to restore it.”

Father let out a low laugh. “You heard true. Your mother is as cunning as all of King’s Landing when she wants to be. And the King did swear to it. The man has a pride. All the North will know that it was the dragon that rose Moat Cailin from the Neck.”

“And it will be the son of a she-wolf that commands it. The North remembers Aunt Lyanna, Father. They know who Jon is truly the son of.”

Father was not convinced. “Maybe. But he is in King’s Landing now. And his wife will be the daughter of the Mad King. The North remembers, Robb. The good along with the bad.”

“Is that what this is about, Father? Marrying Sansa to the Prince, giving Moat Cailin to Jon? Sending Bran to be a squire to Ser Barristan? Making sure that your bannermen know that you are still the Warden?”

“It is about our family, Robb.” Father turned to him, and Robb saw the gray of his eyes turn into a cold fire. “It has _always_ been about our family. Securing the North and protecting our family is one in the same. I marched South and lost. I fought for the man, sent Northmen to die for him. Seeds of doubt are planted. You know how warmly Jon and the Princess were received.”

Robb remembered. The thunderous cheers only came when Sansa was announced to Prince Aegon.

“What we need is a show of strength. A conviction that the Starks will never be swayed from Winterfell. Not today, not a hundred years from now. Not ever. Mance Rayder is marching on the Wall. And the North will march on it in turn.”

“So I will hold Winterfell in your stead?”

Father shook his head. “No. I will hold Winterfell. Maester Luwin has already sent out the ravens. You will be marching on the Wall. It will be my son that leads the North against the Wildlings.”

Robb felt the wind pull at his hair. “I will lead?”

“You will. I told you once before Robb, a day would come when it would be you that my bannermen will call Lord. That day is here and now. I do not know who will answer my call, but those that do will answer to you.

“As Lord of Winterfell, in all but name.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF SUNSPEAR**

Jon Connington did not fit the Iron Throne. For near half a year the Hand was called to the bladed seat in the absence of the King. And for half a year Arianne could see the misery on the man’s face. She could see it in the burrows of his brow, the way he folded his hands to stay as clear of the edges as he could. The irritation in his eyes, the way he bit into his lips.

Connington did not want the Throne. He was perhaps one of a rare few.

The Iron Throne had cast a deep shadow on the procession. It was one thing for a gathering of smallfolk protesting a cruel or ignorable lord. They had that right, and the Hand had to bear witness to it. But it was rare for anyone of noble stock to petition the Throne so openly.

And yet that was what the Carons of Nightsong have done.

They were looking down from the balconies. Viserys weaved his thumb in between his fingers, his dragon ring being rubbed into a dull shine. Her princely husband did as such when he was forced to pay attention. Perhaps the abrasion against his fingers is all the Prince could do to keep awake. Arianne could hardly blame him at times. Except he did it just as often in her presence as not.

There is a single thing that would demand Viserys’ attention, and that was the realm. Duty and Family must have been Viserys’ wet nurse, because that was all could bring a spark to her husband’s purple eyes.

It could have been worse. Viserys could have been made like his father. It would have been fitting - Rhaegar was the redeemed king, and his sister was the pearl of the realms. A Jonquil come again, with her dark and brooding beloved. Viserys could have easily taken the Targaryen madness. Yet the most outrageous thing you could say of Viserys is just how rare it was to see him smile.

Prince Aegon sat at the feet of the Iron Throne. It was the Hand that ruled, as was Jon Connington’s duty. _The King shits, the Hand wipes. As the saying goes._ But Aegon was still here, to make his intent known.

One day my Father will die. And I will be the Sixth of My Name.

The sharp shadows of the Throne were cast over his still face. The Prince acted all boisterous when it suited him. But when it came time for Aegon to be the Prince of Dragonstone, he looked every bit the part. His pale head was held high, his silver braid was coiled around his neck, and those violet eyes were transfixed on the man in his approach.

Ser Rolland Storm walked down the chamber. “The Bastard of Nightsong,” Viserys said. The man’s beard was salt and pepper, and his eyes were a deep brown. He had survived a pox, and his face was scarred from the ordeal. If it was a terrible affliction than the man conquered it. The highborn bastard walked like the Warrior himself. All swagger, all power, with no shred of grace and just a shade of humility.

He stopped just an sword's length away from the Kingsguard. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent and great-uncle Lewyn stared him down. Their hands were always on the pummel of their swords. Ser Rolland bent his knee. Jon Connington raised his left hand. “Rise, Ser. You approach the Iron Throne. Speak your needs, and the Kingdoms will answer.”

Ser Rolland rose up. “I come on behalf of my half-sister, second daughter of Nightsong. Allayna has been married to Lord Renly Baratheon for ten years.”

“A fruitful marriage,” the Prince said. “A beautiful woman for a comely lord. Their children would be strong heirs to Storm’s End.”

“Would be, My Prince, if there were children. If there were a bedding.” The court was washed over in murmurs and hurried whispers. “If Lord Renly did once his duty to his House.”

“Has your sister not been bled?” Jon Connington leaned forward. “Was the marriage not consummated?”

Rolland Storm chewed on his lips. “In ways obscene. He did not take her with his noble prick. He used his fingers instead.” The court erupted into gasps. “Lord Renly does not entertain my Lady Sister in bed. He prefers the company of noble and comely men instead.” He raised his voice over the wave of whispers. “My sister has been humiliated for ten years, Lord Hand. Enough is enough. Dissolve the marriage.”

The shock of the Court reached a crescendo. “He was sent to fail,” Viserys said above the clamors of the crowd. “Lord Bryce sent his baseborn brother to fail. Of _course_ a bastard would presume he can demand a marriage annulment from the Hand.”

“This will just weaken Renly’s hold on the Stormlands. We all knew of his affections. It was an open secret. But now that it is out in the open-”

“Storm’s Reach is losing its grip on the Stormlands. It will fall apart at the seams.”

The room bellowed with the sound of a staff being pounded into the ground. “The Hand calls for silence!” The Steward’s voice stretched across the chamber. The excited fervor died down.

Jon Connington leaned forward, his fingers weaved into a fist. “Ser Rolland Storm of Nightsong. You have travelled far from the Stormlands. You say your sister has been humiliated, but that is not malice. You say that your sister has not been bedded, but she has been bled. She is without child, but that is not proof of ill intent. Renly may have decadence in his court, but that does not amount to neglect to his court.

“The Iron Throne denies your petition. The marriage between Lord Renly Baratheon of Storms End and Lady Allayna Caron of Nightsong stands.”

The whispers raised into arguments, the comments into declarations. The throne room became so loud one would need to shout to be heard. Ser Rolland said something, but it was lost amongst the clamor. Whatever it was, the Hand was unmoved. The knight walked off, his hands rolled into a fist as he stormed through the throne room. “And now the bastard will return to his brother. I don’t recall the Carons having strong influence in the Stormlands.”

“Strong enough for them to wed the last Baratheon. But obviously not enough for him to bed his wife.”

Viserys nodded. “And not with enough sway to force the Hand. If Renly only did his duty, this uproar could have been avoided. Now when he does manage to bed his wife, it will be the knowledge that their children will be that of a decrepit.”

“It is not so rare a thing. Dorne knows there are men who favor other company.”

“This is not Dorne, Princess. This is King’s Landing. Certain standards must be met.”

 _Indeed, such as sending a bastard to humiliate a sister._ The Keep wouldn’t keep silent about the Stormlands for weeks. Not even the news that the King and the Prince were a few weeks away could keep the gossip from dying. That only served the strengthen the conversations. _“What will the King do?” “Shall he ride on Storm’s End?” “Don’t be absurd. He wants peace. He wed a dragon to a wolf after all.” “Can a King force a Lord to fuck? Is there any precedence for a Lord that didn’t make use of his prick?”_ Arianne heard such talks in the hallways for weeks. It never seemed to end.

It made sense. It was the event of the year. The doom of House Baratheon was announced for all the court to see. _Instead of being brought by a rebellion, it occurred because their last son won’t bed his wife._

“Tell me Rhaenys, what _will_ your father do?” Arianne lifted the spoon to her lips. The creamy aroma of mushroom and buttered snails filed the air.

The Princess of Dragonstone shrugged her shoulders, her dark ringlets rolling off of her. The Princess favored her mother in all ways. Her skin was a soft brown, and her hair was as dark as night. The only way she took after her father were her eyes, which were a radiant violet. “I don’t recall a King forcing a man to fuck his own wife.”

“But this is a Paramount Lord, after all. What happens when Renly dies without issue? We may need to rely on one of Robert’s bastards.”

“There is that Edric Strom, if I recall. I hear the has all the swagger of his father. He just chooses to forget that he is baseborn.”

“Maybe the Stormlands are in need of a good bastard, if they are stuck with a Lord that puts his member in the wrong place.” Arianne ripped off a piece of oatbread. The baked in dates, apples and oranges filled her mouth with sweetness. “Enough of that. Have you spoken with your goodsister?”

“She is not my goodsister, cousin.”

“But she _will_ be. If it weren’t for all the Baratheon controversy, everyone would be talking of the wolf maiden. She’ll be the Wolf Queen in a few years. I’ve seen her. Her hair is like it was set ablaze. Your bother will have no issues with her in the bed, I promise.”

“At least my family’s blood will be secured.” Rhaenys picked at the bread.

“Twice over. Prince Jon was wed to Princess Daenerys.”

Rhaenys’ purple eyes narrowed. “Betrothed,” she said with insistence. “Not the same thing.”

“But not to the Targaryens. You just may be welcoming a niece or nephew before they are wed before the Seven. I hear that their affections for each other are infectious.”

“Then I wish them all the happiness. In their keep in the North.”

“The boy wasn’t even born. One can’t blame the babe for the mother.”

“But he is the result of it, Ari. My mother would still be alive if not for Lyanna Stark of Winterfell.” _She’s not entirely wrong. But her father is not without guilt either._ And then the air was filled with the sound of trumpets. A royal fanfare in announcement. Rhaenys rose from her cushions. “Excuse me cousin. I have found my appetite fouled.”

It was not without cause. The King had arrived.


	7. The Tourney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Company lands on Westeros. A son of Dorne takes flight. A clash of princes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://wp.me/P7Obn3-1R
> 
> I do seem to be terrible at keeping my promises. Sorry about taking so long. I had meant to get this chapter out before the end of October, but, well, some things cannot be avoided.
> 
> Honors to the honored. SundaeAmbrosia has been superb in taking a technical eye at my mess of prose and conspiracies. My Lady, I salute you.

**THE SEAWORTH**

The Golden Company swept through the Stormlands. It began with the landing on Cape Wrath and the Rainwoods. A gathering of twenty thousand strong arrived on that rain streaked coast. The rest were separated by storms. Gendyr may have intended to name himself the Storm King, but his moniker felt fit to test him.

Davos remembered the arguments ushered by the captains once they escaped the storm. For a single day the argued, long and hard, on if they should continue. The Prince insisted on being cautious, to strike with a full force. Daario may have said the same, if the Stormcrows were not separated by the storm. Bloodbeard said the Prince should piss on his caution, that the time to act was not. That their surprise drifted away with every hour.

And while the captains argued, and the mercenary commanders fumed in their cups, Davos thought of his boys.

Dale was with him on the _Valyrian_ , as well as Mathos, but Allard and Maric were on the _Conqueror_ and the _Laced Sword_ , and both were lost with the storms. Of Salladhor Saan’s twenty-nine ships, twelve were separated from the fleet. Davos found himself often whispering to the Father; “Bring my boys back to me, Father. I serve my King as well as a man could. Just keep Allard and Maric alive.” But as the day dragged on, Davos feared the Father was not fit to answer him.

At the day’s end Gendyr demanded that the sails be raised and they continue. Bloodbeard looked pleased with himself, as cheap mead dripped from his crimson beard.

And so they did, onto the soft shores of Cape Wrath.

It was a month after they left the Tyroshi coast, and the wet Rainwoods loomed over them as they embarked. As they marched through the soft earth Davos could see the Griffin’s Roost stand over them in the distance. Like so many of the Stormland keeps, it was built on a cliff that overlooked the sea. Taunting the storms and the sea to rip the stone from the mortar.

They didn’t see the League of Storms come from behind them. Perhaps the Lord of Nightsong was right about the decadence set by the holder of Storm’s End. Maybe all of Westeros had gotten fat and lazy, made complacent by Rhaegar’s peace. But as soon as Griffin’s Roost raised the bridge, the men were given hooks and they scaled the walls. By the day’s end the Griffin’s Roost was open to them. A few ravens were released, but Black Balaq and his archers shot them down. The Maester was sent flying from the top of his tower. The rest of the ravens were cooked and spiced for supper. Mathos thought they tasted like chicken.

Davos could only think of Allard and Maric. Allard had a girl in Braavos that he wrote to often. “Her father sells linen and silks,” Allard told him once. “She has the darkest hair I have ever seen.”

_Father, let Allard see his Braavosi girl again. Let me hold my boys in my arms again._

The mercenary legions made their camps along the hills. The gray and blue flag of the Stormcrows, the broken sword of the Secondsons, the horn of the Windblown and the dark Cat flew below the keep. Fifteen thousand Dothraki made it onto the shore, and they grumbled and muttered as they kept their feet still and their blades dry.

“Khal,” Jhogo said to Gendyr as they ate from Jon Connington’s table, “the _khalasar_ wishes to know when they ride.” The bloodrider kept on thumbing the handle of his whip. All of the Dothraki seemed to be feeling the edges of their blades.

“When I have received my dark words.”

The ravens came soon after. Word of allegiance from the Bollings and Cafferens, the Carons and the Estermonts, and a hundred more names of noble stock that were alien to Davos. Tens of thousands of men all together. The bulk of the Stormlands had come for Gendyr, with words of allegiance and fealty.

For the King of Storms. For Robert Baratheon come again.

“And what of the Dondarrions?” Gendyr had asked.

“No answer,” answered Jorah. “There is a chance they don’t know we have come. Granted, there is a better chance that the sky has turned green.”

“Then they will be made to heel. Give Plumm some Dothraki; three score should do. Raze their lands, set aflame to their stock. And claim for me Blackhaven.”

After the Secondsons and the Dothraki marched for Blackhaven, Gendyr divided the rest of the forces. They made for Greenstone, Rain House and Crow’s Nest. As they marched through the winding plains and the golden fields, they united with the Stormlander lords. Bryce Caron of Nightsong, Ralph Buckler and his cousin Brus of Bonzegate, and Ser Donnel Swann and his brother Balon of Stonehelm, and a dozen more lords and their estates. Davos never knew so many flags and tents could be perched in one place.

Lord Bryce Caron was a clean shaven man with crimson hair. He was the first Lord to ride out to Gendyr’s host, and the first to take Gendyr’s hands into his own. “My King, the Stormlands welcome you home.”

“And by the Hells, it is a welcome. Give me your iron welcome over sweet lemoncakes any-day.”

“I assure you, once my brother revealed Lord Renly’s debaucheries before the court, the Stormlands knew where to turn.” Lord Caron guided Gendyr, Davos and Jorah into the camp. “My brother has already breached the Crownlands. The Bastard of Nightsong is safe.”

“Good to hear. From one bastard to another, I will make sure he is rewarded. If the dragons learned of his intent before his arrival, his life was forfeit. I won’t forget my friends.”

“Nor your enemies, I pray. I do not see the flag of Blackhaven being flown. The Dondarrions have always been more of Dorne than the Stormlands. Lord Berric had taken upon Eddric Dayne of Starfall as his squire.”

“Is that Arthur Dayne’s nephew?” asked Jorah.

“The same,” Lord Caron answered. “And heir to Starfall, since his father and uncle both died on the Trident. And the Sword of the Morning has long since taken on the White.”

“A valuable hostage,” Bloodbeard said with a snort, “if we can claim him.”

“The Secondsons will see to it,” Gendyr answered. “My Lords, how fast can we march on Storm’s End?”

“By the morning,” spoke up Ser Donel, “if you wish it.”

“I do. Jorah, send word to Franklyn Flowers. Give him three hundred men and lay waste to the land around Storm’s End. Have Boraq give him some archers for the ravens. No one enters, no one leaves. I won’t have my uncle slip through my fingers.”

Jorah nodded, but with a grimace. The man may be an exile, but Jorah has never trusted the bastards of the Golden Company. Even if he meant to put one on the Iron Throne. But Davos had played with bastards as a boy in Flea Bottom. There was no real difference between a bastard and someone who wasn’t, except you could call someone a bastard and mean it.

While the camp slept, Frankly Flowers and his three hundred rode off. When Davos awoke in his tent, the field had become barren. Where the landscape was once filled with tents and flags, all Davos could see where the rolls of tents and the marshalled troops. They ate as they rode for Storm’s End. They passed by smoldering ruins of wheat fields, the grain turned black as their flames lit the morning sky. Davos could see in the distance dark red pillars of smoke.

 _This is war. The price for Gendyr’s crown. Innocents die as well as the guilty_.

He could have just as easily been those innocents put to Franklyn Flowers’ sword, if he had lived another life. If he was born a farmer’s son instead of a crabber’s that resided in Flea Bottom. If he hadn’t become a smuggler that saved a besieged lord of Storm’s End.

By the middle of the third day, they arrived. Storm’s End looked no less menacing than twenty years ago. It was crowned by five massive drum towers, each protected with iron ramparts, and a huge barbican raised from the hardest and most trustworthy stone. Some say that Harrenhal was the greatest fortress ever devised, until the dragons arrived. Storms End was surely its successor. All of the Company, could lay siege to these walls. And all of the Company would be repelled a dozen times over.

“Three days,” Gendyr had assured his Lords in the privacy of his tent. “Three days, and Storms End will be mine.” Gendyr made no mention of siege craft, nor of how they would pierce the keep. Lord Renly made no appearance from atop his vaulted walls. The Lord of Storm’s End gave no vow to hold the castle for as long as he breathed. Storm’s End was silent for three days.

On the third day after they pitched camp, the bridge was lowered.  The glittering banners of the Golden Company were waiting for them, as the attendants of Storm’s End arrived with their lord. Renly Baratheon was naked, chained, gagged and dragged by a horse. His lady wife Allayna Caron was at the front. Her gloved hands tightly gripped the rope that tugged her husband in the procession.

“My King,” she announced in her arrival. “I present to you my husband. Lord Renly Baratheon.” She pulled on the rope and Renly stumbled before them. Renly choked on his gag, his eyes were red and watered. He looked up, and the eyes of the uncle met the nephew.

Renly’s eyes were red, glistening with tears. Gendyr looked upon his uncle, and he smiled. Renly could only shake and tremble, his breath hoarse and ragged through his gag. Gendyr raised his uncle’s head with his gloved hand. “Lady Caron, you have given me the key to Storm’s End.” He did not look away from his uncle. 

“The castle is yours, My Lord,” Allayna Caron said. “The Stormlands are yours.”

“The rest of the realm shall follow,” swore Lord Bryce Caron.

 _How?_ Davos could not see the reality in Lord Caron’s words. The Reach has always been loyal to the dragon. They would not deter, not today, not ever. The Dornish had married themselves with the Crownlands. Prince Aegon had the blood of the Dornishmen in his veins. However many tens of thousands the Dornish had, they would march north against Gendyr. The Lannisters had wed into the Targaryen line, and two of Rhaegar’s heirs have the golden blood of Casterly Rock. The North had betrothed itself to the South. Lord Stark will not march on his children.

_So, Lord Caron, who stands with us? We are alone. The only chance is to be like the point of the spear on the grass sea. Strike against the dragon before the realm can unite._

“What of our friends to the north?” asked Gendyr.

Jorah shook his head. “No word, no ravens. He might be waiting on us to make the first move.”

“Let the conniver watch. I have the signal of our return, fettered before me. Fetch me the weeping man, he will ride for King’s Landing.”

 

**THE STORMBORN**

King’s Landing was in a fervor for the tourney. Knights and Lords from across the Kingdoms had congregated into the Crownlands. Dany could see the pregnant streets from her chambers in the Holdfast.

The last time she could remember the streets being so loud were when Rhaegar returned from the campaign against Pyke. That noise had been thunderous; thousands upon thousands of voices screaming our Rhaegar’s name at once. This was another noise all together; the bundled mass of small talk and merchant barters, the gaiting of horses entwined with the laughter of children dashing through the streets.

If Dany wanted to escape it, she could have retreated for the gardens or one of the inner halls of the Holdfast. Though even within the deepest reaches of the Holdfast, Dany could still hear the murmurs from the streets. They were like rain drops, soft taps that drummed against the castle walls.

In the weeks since their return, Dany often found herself alone with Lya. Jon was often entangled with Egg. “Let me show you how we Crownlanders hawk. Do you even hawk in the North?” “Jon, we just had some vintage from the Reach. Have a glass or two with your brother.” Almost everyday Jon seemed to pulled away to be with his brother. And if it wasn’t Aegon, Tyrion Lannister seemed to have reason to share a moment with Jon.

Dany had scarcely even seen Bran. “Apologies, Princess,” he’d say with a quick bow as he passed her by in the halls. “Ser Barristan needs me.” Or, “Prince Tommen summoned me. Apologies Princess, another day.”

Sansa was always in the gardens, however. She had surrounded herself with the daughters of lords. Sansa was the big enigma, and the name to be whispered. On one hand, Dany was glad. It kept eyes off of her and Jon. But she feared for Sansa as well. The South was not the North. No Northman would dare sully the Stark name. The Starks were Winterfell, and Winterfell was the North. But in the South, Sansa was the daughter of a Paramount Lord. Exceptional, to be sure, but not irreplaceable. Sansa could easily find herself in a cobweb of thinly veiled insults and not see it.

She had told Jon her worries. But Jon seemed more concerned with stroking her cheek. “Sansa will be spending all her life here. Her children will be growing in Maegor’s halls. Sansa is not dumb, Dany. She knew what she was doing when she offered herself to my father.”

“Yes but that doesn’t mean she should be fending for herself.”

“No, that is exactly why. You need to sink a bit before you can swim. Let her learn. Let her drown a little.”

The host of the reach arrived with the Tyrells at the front. And leading the Tyrell van was Mace Tyrell, the Paramount Lord of the Reach. And right beside him were his youngest children, Margaery and Loras. Some had proclaimed her to be the rose of High Garden, a wonderful beauty and a keen mind. Dany couldn’t comment on the keenness of her mind, but she could not dispute her lovely appearance. Margaery had a heart shaped face and dark locks of hair that flowed down to her breasts.

The day after the Reach Lords arrived within King’s Landing, the Rose had reached out to Sansa. Dany couldn’t say what Sansa had found in Margaery – or what Margaery had earned from Sansa. She had more pressing matters to attend to.

They were in the gardens of the Keep. It was the height of the Long Summer, as the Maesters were calling it. Almost twenty long years of a summer that seemed to go unending. Maybe it would end. Maybe it would go on forever. Regardless, the gardens were reaping the benefits of it. Scarlet roses were in full bloom, and the smell of sweet tulips and sugar-trees filled the air.

Jon and Dany were under the shade of one of the canopies. The vines twisted along the hexed walls, and rays of light pierced through. “Eglie kepa,” Dany said as she read from the book. _The High Speech of the Dragon Lords_ by Maester Karepso was laid on her lap. “You need to say the words for the ceremony.”

Jon was rubbing his irritation away. His brows were furrowed, and the gentle breeze did nothing to sooth him. Dany thought that a change of scenery would help Jon learn the words. _We always played here in the gardens as children. He Florian and I Jonquil_. But she was mistaken.

“I know I need to say the words. ‘High Valyrian is our mother language. You will present yourself to the King in the traditions of the Freehold.’” _He takes on Aegon with every day. The Jon of Winterfell would never mock Viserys, even in good taste._

“That is a poor imitation of Viserys.” She smiled. “You didn’t mention anything about family and duty.”

Jon sat against the bench, the shade from the pavilion cast across his face. He always picked the spot with the most shade. _Even as a boy, he could only take the summer heat for so long._ “Again, Jon. Eglie kepa.” She spoke each word with emphasis. “High King.”

“I know the words. We have gone over it so many times I could speak it from memory.”

“In Westerosi,” Dany said quickly. “But you need to say it in High Valyrian. The tourney is only in a few days Jon. And then after that all the Lords will see you and Sansa present yourselves to Rhaegar.”

Jon sipped from sweet water. “Sansa probably has everything memorized by now.”

“I would hope so. She will be Queen. Would be a poor start if she can’t speak a few words of Valyrian.”

“A few words,” Jon scoffed. “I should be riding. You know Aegon insists we meet in the tilt?”

“Should I be surprised?” Dany laid her thumb on the page and closed the book. She crossed one leg over another. “You and Aegon were always at the ring before Rhaegar sent you to Winterfell.”

“And he would always beat me.”

“And he had a year on you. But Aegon has been busy learning how to rule. How to be king. While you were learning how to be a Northman. Which I imagine involved a good deal more sword fighting than Aegon’s education.”

Jon chuckled. “Ser Rodrick didn’t spare me from bruises just because I was a Prince. ‘If you are a dragon, Jon, then your scales should save your pretty skin from wooden swords’. Not even Robb could escape without some bruises. Aunt Catelyn was wroth.”

“A wonder that he remained the Master-At-Arms.”

Jon was bemused. “Well, my Uncle had more than a few strong words in that regard. Though, not enough to save us from Maester Luwin’s lessons. Only Sansa managed to sit through those lessons. And speaking of which, what’s this I hear of you ignoring the new Archmaester? Magwyr?”

“Marwyn,” she corrected. “And I know Rhaeger needed to select a new Archmaester after Pycelle had died. But I don’t trust him. They call him the Mage. All of his chains are linked with Valyrian steel.” Valyrian chains signified learnings into the deep lores. Of magic, sorceries and prophecies. _Of things that should be left unturned._ “I heard that he has travelled to Asshai. To the Shadow Lands.” The words sent a shiver down her bones.

“No harm can come to you, Dany. Not here, not in the Red Keep.” _Not when I am here. Is that what you mean to say Jon? But a sword can’t cut through everything._

“I am not afraid of the Archmaester, but I am weary of him. I don’t trust any man that is too busy to trim his nose hairs.” _That and he is always muttering as he walks. If a man is going to speak his mind, it should be loud enough for everyone to hear._

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “There is more to your distrust than the man’s hygiene.”

“I don’t trust him. Just like you don’t trust me with why you are really avoiding these lessons.”

Jon sighed with irritation. “It’s this damn tourney. Forty thousand dragons. That’s how much my Father is rewarding the first place in the joust. And twenty thousand to the man that reaches second. My Father doesn’t need to be so extravagant.”

“But Rhaegar can afford to. Two of his sons have become betrothed. One of them fulfilling a pact that went a hundred years unfulfilled. And the other,” she said with a smile, “filled his sister with happiness. The Kingdoms need a good tourney. It helps the inns and the merchants.”

Jon shook his head. “But forty thousand dragons. That is too much. And that’s just for the joust. Twenty thousand to both the archer and melee champion. Lord Tyrion told me-“

“You’ve been speaking with the Queen’s brother?”

“Of course I have! The dwarf keeps inviting me to drink and play cyvasse.” _And lose badly, I’d imagine._ “Aegon wants to restore Summerhall.”

“Aegon is Prince of Dragonstone. Is your brother not allowed to be extravagant?”

Jon frowned. “It is just a summer home. It’s foolish. And winter is coming, sooner or later. This long summer will die sooner or later. Father should be building glass gardens like in Winterfell, not letting Aegon waste heaps of gold on a retreat we won’t be using for years.”

“Jon. Your Mother’s blood is strong in you, but Aegon is entirely a Targaryen. And his Dornish blood won’t allow him to be frugal. The Prince of Dragonstone needs to stretch his wings before he climbs to the Iron Throne. Just like how the Prince of Summerhall needs a seat to call his own.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “You think Aegon does this for my sake? We will have Moat Cailin. That is the seat of House Whitefyre.”

“I don’t know if Aegon wants Summerhall for you. I assume he does, but what does a Princess know of a Prince’s working mind? But there needs to be a Summerhall. Our House is rich and powerful. We had Dragonstone for the power. Summerhall was supposed to boast our luxuries.”

“Until it burnt to the ground.”

“Before your father was born,” Dany said with some regret. “Maybe it would be good for my brother to see Summerhall restored before he passes from the world. Ser Barristan told me that Rhaegar was born in grief; maybe Aegon’s ambitions could lift it.”

She imagined what the scene could be like. They would approach over the hill, the fields green and filled with red roses. Amidst the sound of beetles and flapping birds, they would look at the white halls of Summerhall. Perhaps she would be holding a son, with hair so dark and with the eyes of Old Valyria. Aegon and Sansa would be there, surely. And perhaps Aegon would entwining his fingers with his son’s. Maybe their prince would have flaming red hair, like his mother. Or the dark curls of Dorne, from Aegon’s mother.

There the next generation of Targaryens would look on as the past was restored.

As it should be.

 

**THE KRAKEN’S SON**

The North stretched on unending, for as far as Theon could see.

In the weeks that followed their march from Winterfell, Theon wished he knew better of the maps. There were days where the hills and the roads all merged together. Robb kept marching on, and Theon would not raise a point, but he wondered if the Northman was as lost as he was. And some days they would pass by something – a crooked ruin of the First Men, some new slithering river, a new and distinguished rock – and Theon would know they were getting somewhere.

Slowly. At the pace of a mutated cripple.

That and it was getting colder. The further the days passed by, Theon could feel the chill in his bones. And the land grew quieter. They would make camp along the edge of forests, and some days it would be so quiet that Theon could imagine that Robb’s army was the last lick of life in all the Kingdoms.

Tall and abandoned ruins would watch them as they marched past. The banner wielders would hold up the sigils of the Northern houses. The white sun of Karstark, the chained giant of Umber, the Mormont bear, the tree of Forrester and the hills of Whitehill. There were a few others that Theon couldn’t recognize, but Theon knew those that weren’t. The flayed man of Bolton, the merman of Manderly. Robb was half pleased that the Boltons rejected the summons. “The Wall is far and winter is coming,” came Lord Bolton’s reply.

But it was the Manderly’s refusal to answer the call that cut at Robb. Theon imagined that Benjen Stark would have raged at his goodfather for days, but the Fish Lord must have had some excuse. White Harbor is so south that it might as well be in the Riverlands. Perhaps that gave Lord Wyman some reason. But they were family now, and kin should answer to kin.

_Just like how I answered for the mistakes of my father._

He remembered the last words Maester Luwin said to him; “Look after your Lord, Theon. He is a capable man, but he is just a man. Everyone needs counsel he can trust, and to Robb that means you.”

The land stretched out, and Theon could see no end in sight. He could see the furthest image of the Wall on the horizon, more a gray visage than anything else; it was so small he could fit it in his hand. A week of travel and Theon still felt no closer to their goal. Theon never knew that boredom could be so relentless and cruel.

It wasn’t just the dull journey that cut at Theon, either. The ride was hard. By the first week’s end his thighs were raw, and his fingers were numb and irritable. He relished every moment around the campfire, but he never raised any complaints. He saw the looks the Northmen would give him. A Kraken riding among the sons of the North. He knew the history the Northmen shared with the Iron Islanders. A history marked in blood, pillage and rape. All but Robb wanted him gone.

Theon would not give them the satisfaction of hearing a single whine from him. He kept his mouth shut, rubbed the pain from his legs, and kept his fingers close to the fires.

He would assist the Northerners when they would make camp. He would stay out of their suspicious glares as he dug latrines, or helped raise poles for the tents. And when they were done – or when Theon felt he had done enough – he would walk away from them, with a bundle of arrows in one hand, and his bow on his shoulders.

Robb called Theon brother, and often times Theon believed him. But there was salt in his blood, not the fires of the North.

The arrows would help him remember. He’d thrust the arrows into the ground, and one by one he would set them loose. Notch, nock, loose. Slip the arrow into the string, straighten your bow arm, and let it fly. Notch, nock, loose. The goose feathers would whisper into the air as the arrow cut through the wind. Theon would often make contests for himself. “Let’s go beyond that rock.” “I can hit the tree on the other end of that stream.” “Surely I can cut through that branch.” All were challenges, usually a good distance away. A good test to see just how capable Theon was with bow and arrow.

Theon bested them every time.

Today there was a tree with an apple hanging limp from its branch. The last apple of the season. Theon thrust his arrows into the soft ground around a rock. They slipped in like daggers into flesh. Theon could feel his boots sink into the ground with his weight.

Theon was determined to have that apple. It could be the very last apple for twenty years and Theon Greyjoy was going to eat it.

His hair blew across his face. It was an eastern wind. From east to west. This was a seaborne wind. _That’s as good of an omen as any_. Twice he felt the goose feathers against his fingers and noose the arrows to the wind. And twice the arrows just grazed the apple. He didn’t know if the head had managed to cut it, or if the wind had pushed it aside.

But twice he had missed.

He had just pulled the third arrow out of the ground when he heard the soft steps behind him. “If you were a Targaryen, I’d say three was a lucky number.” Theon turned his head and saw Jojen Reed. He had motley brown hair and deep, green eyes. He wore a leather jacket knit like a thousand leaves. “But the Kraken had eight arms, if I’m not wrong.”

“You are. The Kraken has countless arms.” Theon pulled the arrow out of the ground. “What do you want, Crannogman?”

“Just to talk. We’re going to be fighting together, after all. We should know each other.”

“I know you. I know that your sister does all your fighting for you. She’s the one that came with the spears and swords. You don’t even have a dagger on you.”

Jojen smiled with queerness. “Some of us are worth protecting. And not every battle is fought with steel. Sometimes words can suffice.”

_Then maybe you should take your words to Oldtown. I’m sure the Maesters would love your philosophies._

“You are a better shot than most, Greyjoy.”

“Because I am the only one who can shoot?”

Jojen smiled as he shook his head. “Because you can be patient. We of the Crannogs know a thing or two about the bow. And the spear. We know when to keep away and when to strike.”

Theon nooked his arrow. “What are you getting at, Reed?”

“That you are not as alone as you think. And patience is often rewarded. The wind is stirring. Shoot to the right.”

 _Don’t tell me what to do, Crannogman_. Theon let the arrow loose. The shaft sliced through the air and the head gorged through the apple. The twig snapped with the force and the apple went flying. Theon heard the apple land on the ground with a thump.

Theon made his way across the grass. He lifted the apple up by the arrow shaft, the juices rolling down the wood. Theon could see how firm and crisp it was. He bit into it, and he felt the juices slip at the corners of his lips. He made his way back to Jojen Reed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You are not alone, Greyjoy, but you won’t be accepted.”

“Do all you Reeds like to take the sweetness out of victory?”

If Jojen cared, he didn’t show it. His green eyes looked at Theon with intensity. “You are too much Kraken for any Northman to forget. Just as I have too much of the Crannogs in me to avoid their stares. Fight on despite it.”

“Like I have done any different.”

“With the idea that you will be seen as more than the heir to Pyke. Abandon that dream. Only the Starks will accept you.”

Theon snorted. “Well, fuck you too Jojen.”

 

**A GIRL OF SONGS**

With the blast of the horns, the Tourney was well and truly on.

Laborers and craftsman from across King’s Landing and the Crownlands had been at work for months on the Tourney. The King’s Tourney they were calling it, and as the pavilions were raised, and the seats were nailed, the excitement of the city grew. It was all anyone could talk about, it seemed. Whenever Sansa would break her fast, or make her way past any gathering of petitioners, all she could hear was concerned with the King’s Tourney. It was the fields outside of the city that were chosen for the tracks. “It has the most room,” Lord Tyrion had explained. The dwarf lord sipped on Dornish Red. “Not the most secure of sites, but who will ride on King’s Landing?”

When Sansa had arrived with the royal family, only a few dozen tents had been made and just a few lines of seats. But by the time Jon and Daenerys had returned with the King, banners were stretched out for miles. Raised pavilions of a dozen different colors decorated the field, a hundred different merchants were selling their wares, and the inns were filled with the common travelers and highborn alike. The Tourney was ready.

They were seated at the tallest point of the tourney grounds, the flags of Stark, Martell, Lannister and Targaryen flowing behind them. Jon and Aegon were not with them. “The Princes will be in the tilts,” Princess Daenerys had explained. Sansa had known that, of course. Aegon had proclaimed loud and clear his desire to meet Jon on the joust. “Wolf, you best not get knocked off. I’ll hang you by your toes if any but I toss you to the ground.”

The rest of the royal family sat in their box, the excited cheers from the crowd reaching up to them. Sansa could see below the flurry of knights, squires and pages that rushed frantically from one end to the next. It seemed that just about every family in the Kingdoms had sent a knight or four to the King’s Tourney.

“Except for the Lannisters,” Lyanna Mormont said a bit louder than sensible. The Queen’s green eyes narrowed on her. Lyanna did not so much as flinch.

“But surely,” Arianne Martell said with a smile, “the Westerlanders are represented?”

“Clegane,” Princess Rhaenys said sharply. “Lord Tywin has sent the Hound.”

“The man still hunts for his brother,” the Queen said. “For near twenty years the Lord of Clegane Keep has not stirred from his duties. My Lord Father does him well, to force some rest on him.”

“And what of _my_ brother?” Rhaenys demanded. “I have not seen Joferion since he clutched to your dresses, My Queen. Is he not a rider? Can he not represent his family?”

“Rhaenys,” the King spoke with an iron tone. “That is enough.”

The Princess remained silent, but Sansa saw the hardness in her eyes. The matter was not settled. If someone were to speak, the blasting horns cut them off. The blowers sang their tune, and then the banners were raised. The twin towers of Frey were lifted high. Sansa didn’t know which of Lord Walder’s dozens had ridden out onto the field. On the other side were raised the grapes of Redwyne. The Redwyne fleet was the most powerful in Westeros, only behind the Iron Fleet in numbers.

With a blast of the horn, the Redwyne and the Frey charged forth. The lances cracked and shattered on the first run, but by the second, the Frey was knocked to the ground. “A good start,” Princess Daenerys said with some cheer. “Would be a boring tourney if every run was done in just a single charge.”

“All the sooner to see Jon face against Aegon,” Sansa said. “I think half of the realm has come for that tilt.”

“I think you may be right,” the Princess said with a smile.

“Aegon is the better rider by far,” Rhaenys said with confidence. “He has been riding since he was out of the cradle.”

“And yet he was never able to outride me,” Daenerys said.

Lord Tyrion laughed. “True that may be, Princess, but are you down on the field in plates and lance? I heard it was Jon that always lagged behind you and the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Sansa said with a tight smile, “I do not know how well Jon rode as a child. But in Winterfell, he was swift on any steed. I would bet he will be more than capable for my betrothed.”

Rhaenys’ eyes narrowed. “Are you betting against Aegon, Sansa?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Aegon _is_ the Prince of Dragonstone. But Jon is no green rider.”

“Well,” Daenarys said, “if Lady Sansa won’t bet, I shall take her place. Niece, I will lay fifteen silver dragons on Jon.”

Rhaenys’ purple eyes flared. “I will take your coin, sweet aunt. My brother will win the day.” Sansa wanted to remark how Jon was her brother as well, but she kept her silence and the peace. Patience can be the better part of valor, she read once.

Tommen clapped his hand against his knee. “If Rhaenys has thrown her lot in, then so shall I. Five silvers to Jon. The Northern riders have to be feared for a reason.”

“Nonsense,” the Queen said. “You have the blood of Lannister in you, Tommen. Don’t act so foolish. And besides, the Southron Knights are the true might of the Kingdoms.”

“I reject both notions,” Rhaegar said. “Let Tommen give his brother a true Targaryen welcome. And the Northern riders are fierce for good reason, my good wife.”

“Husband, it is not good-“

“Myrcella, I won’t let you be the one bystander.” Rhaeger turned from his Queen to his youngest daughter. “Five silvers to Jon or Aegon?”

Myrcella furrowed her brow, as she considered her words. Both her father and mother were focused on her, but Sansa suspected that Myrcella felt the weight of the Queen’s stare more than that of her father’s. “I-to Aegon. I won’t let it be said we were too divided in Jon’s favor.”

Tryion smirked. “A true Dance of the Dragons we have here. Although considerably less bloody.”

Viserys’ fingers rubbed against his silver rings. “One notion I can agree to.”

The runed banner of Runestone was raised, and the herald announced the ride of Andar Royce. “Isn’t he the Bronze Yohn’s heir?” Tyrion mused over his cups. A white banner was raised, and Sansa could see Bran standing on the far side of the field. “That is Lady Stark’s brother, if I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not, Lord Tyrion.”

“Then it must be no other than Ser Grandfather on the field.” Daenerys had a soured look on her face, but Tyrion either did not see it or paid no mind. When Ser Barristan rode out on the field, adorned in nothing but white plates, Tyrion was proven right. “I wonder how the Valeman will do against a Kingsguard?”

“Better than you,” the Queen said.

“No arguments on that count,” Tyrion said. And then the horns blew and the riders charged forth. The Runestone heir brought his lance against the white shield of Ser Barristan, and splinters went flying. The older knight’s aim was more true, and found itself on the chest of the Valeman. Andar Royce tumbled from his horse, his dark armor pounding against the shaved grass.

“I hope he is not too displeased with himself,” Rhaenys said. “Knocked out in his first tilt in his first tourney.”

“The boy is young,” Rhaegar said. “There will be other tourneys. He will ride again.”

“Next time with more care,” Viserys noted. “He rode too recklessly against Ser Barristan. His shield too low.”

“The young are young for a reason,” his wife Arianne said.

Viserys frowned. “Because they die before they learn their mistakes. The old are old for a reason.”

A dozen more tilts followed, filled with the young and old. As the day dragged, there were more old than young. _Experience trumps enthusiasm_. Although more than a fair share of the tilts would be decided in a single joust, some were determined after several. Aegon faced off against another son of Frey, as well as the Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep. The Frey was unhorsed with a single thrust to the side, sending him spiraling to the ground. It took three lances for Aegon to unhorse Aron Santagar. The first two rides Aron’s shield arm was strong and true. But on the third ride Aegon’s lance found the man’s chest and Santagar was sent off from his horse.

Jon went up against four riders. The first was a wandering knight with a checkered cloak, and Jon needed to expend two lances to win the tilt. His last was against Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard. It was a fierce joust, with four charges in all. Jon was nearly unhorsed on the first charge, but he raised his shield in time to absorb most of the shock. The crowd was in silence for a moment and then roared in approval to see Jon’s endurance. It was almost deafening but Sansa found herself clapping with the rest of them. Daenerys’ grin was infectious.

Perhaps it was old age, or that Prince Lewyn was worn from the day, but on the fourth ride his shield arm faltered. Jon thrusted against the Speared Sun of Martell, the lance shattered into a thousand wooden shards, and the Kingsguard was toppled from his horse. As Prince Lewyn rose up, the crowd cheered with deafening approval.

“Jonaehrys is capable,” Viserys said. Sansa noticed he was not rubbing his fingers against his many rings. His attention was wrestled by the Tourney. “I thought Prince Lewyn would prove better. I was wrong.”

“Maybe _you_ should have joined in the bets,” Princess Arianne smirked. Her husband snorted in disapproval.

Loras Tyrell was one of the last competitors, and he made his mark. His armor was adorned with field of steel flowers, and it was designed with intricate detail. Even his horse had bright and beautiful flowers in its mane. If he was a poor rider, he would have stood out just on the aesthetics of his arms.

But Loras Tyrell was not a poor rider.

Six times he rode out, six times his lance broke and shattered, and six times he emerged the victor. And for every victory the shouts of “Highgarden!” were heard, none so louder than that of Margaery Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers earned his name when he gave a white flower to a noble lady on the stands.

“The Tyrell boy seems capable enough,” Tyrion said. “He could very well take the whole thing.”

Not long after Ser Loras Tyrell rode out onto the field. His flowered armor shined under the midday light. The audience cheered as the golden rose of Tyrell was raised. But then Lord Sandor Clegane made his appearance, and a silence fell across the Tourney. Sansa looked at the black armor and wondered how he could ride in it. _It must be as hot as dragonfire beneath those heavy plates._ And the man’s helmet was shaped like a hound, its jaws sharp and fierce.

If she was a little girl, she would say this was something out of the songs. The glorious knight against the cruel lord.

Then the horns were blown, and the Rose met with the Hound. Loras’ lance ripped apart as it tried to pierce the bright yellow shield of House Clegane. Clegane roared, a gasp rose from the crowd, and with a single thrust Loras was sent flying. The steel flowers of his armor ripped through the grass and clouds of dirt heaved upwards.

Loras was helped up by some attendants, and a nervous silence fell over the audience. Few applauded for Lord Clegane as he left the field. “One of the Princes is going to have to face him,” Viserys remarked.

“It will be Aegon,” Tommen said with some reluctance. “Jon earned his place in the final ride when he took down Prince Lewyn.”

 _Aegon? Her betrothed will need to face the Hound?_ The Knight of Flowers was the very symbol of what a knight should look like. Beautiful and graceful. Gods be good, his armor was adorned in flowers. He stepped right out of the songs. And the Hound was everything a Knight should not be. Horribly scarred, adorned in armor that was darker than pitch. He did not favor the crowd; he never once looked at them or paid them any tribute. They say that his brother Gregor was a giant, but Sandor was massive in his own right. He easily stood a head tall over any other man.

And Aegon was going to face _that_? He removed Loras with a single thrust! A dark pit began to well in her gut. Aegon may surely lose, or worse. Sansa knew that accident could happen. Margaery told her how her brother Willas was maimed from a jousting accident by Prince Oberyn. People have died from jousts gone wrong, and those wouldn’t be against a beast of a man like Sandor Clegane.

“Daenerys,” Sansa turned. “If Aegon faces Sandor-“

“Aegon will not relent,” the Princess said quickly. Her eyes were focused on the charging field. “I know my nephew. He will not pass up a challenge. Too much pride from him being the Prince of Dragonstone. And he insists on facing Jon on the track.”

“Such pride can get him killed,” Viserys said.

“Clegane is not the enemy,” Cersei spat. “He is a true lord of the Westerlands. He is loyal.”

 _To whom? Is he a true man of the kingdoms, or a man true to your father?_ Sansa has heard the stories of Clegane Keep when Gregor was its lord, before his betrayal in the days following the Rebellion. How servants would vanish, and not even dogs would dare to enter its dark halls. The whispers of such things stopped when Gregor vanished from the world. But the Keep was still stained by the stories. How far was Sandor from his older brother?

How much of Gregor resides within the Lord of Clegane Keep?

As the Hound clouded her mind, word reached them on the Melee. Thoros of Myr was widely considered the favorite, with his blazing sword. The Red Priest was a remarkable swordsman; it was the Essosi that led the charge on Pyke all those years ago, ahead of even the King himself. When the Red Priest declared his intent to win the Tourney, many placed their bets on him.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth, of the Stormlands, has been declared victor,” the messenger answered with a bow of his head.

“A _woman_?” Princess Arianne said with shock in her voice. “This tourney will be remembered, Good-Father. A lady wins a melee, and at least one Prince will be champion of the jousts.”

“I would like to meet her,” Daenerys declared. “After the final tilt, and with Jon. If he is not too sorely bruised.”

If any others had anything to say, they had no time. The horns were blasted, and the three-headed dragon was raised against the three black dogs of Clegane. Aegon and Lord Clegane rode onto the track. Then a horn blew and with a kick of the knees Aegon charged.  Lord Clegane rode as hard and fast. Their lances slid across the slick shields. _How many times will they charge?_

It would only be a second. Lord Clegane sent his lance straight through Aegon’s shield, the metal wheezing and cracking. But it was Aegon who found his true mark. The tip of his lance rushed against Clegane’s shoulder, and it had to be a strong thrust, because Clegane fumbled from his stirrups and landed with a large crash on the ground.

Aegon dropped his ruined shield to the floor, the Targaryen dragon made into a large gaping ruin. The crowd cheered and hollered in mad approval as Aegon took off his helm. He waved to the crowd, his smile gleaming.

Sansa looked to the shield. _That could have been your arm, My Prince._ She looked towards Aegon, who was just leaving the field. Now he was facing against Jon, and in hear heart Sansa knew that the worse was past. Jon was her cousin, and Aegon’s brother. None shall be maimed at the King’s Tourney. The attendants were quickly cleaning the field of splinters, and padding the ground down with their shovels.

“Prince against Prince,” softly spoke Tommen. “Regardless of who wins, I think we’ll be remembering this tourney for some time. I know my purse will.”

“In that nephew,” Daenerys said with a smile, “we agree. Sansa, I hope Egg’s ego will not be too bruised.”

“Princess,” Sansa said with every ounce of courtesy, “it will not be half as much as how hard Jon shall hit the floor. The Heir Apparent shall win the day.”

“Hush, both of you,” Lyanna Mormont said quickly. “The trumpets!”

And as if they were following the Mormont’s command, the horns blasted. Once, twice, thrice, and then a fourth time, they sounded the coming of the Targaryens. The crimson dragon of House Targaryen was flown overhead as Aegon rode underneath. It was only then that Sansa realized just how dark his armor was. As black as ink. The red dragon was painted on his chest, although Sansa noticed it did not glimmer. Aegon’s armor did not boast the rubies of the armor worn by his father on the Trident, but none could deny it was well made. A silver haired prince in dark armor on a black horse. _How much do the dragons love their contrasts?_

And then the white dragon was raised on the field. “Whitefyre” was whispered amongst the crowd. “I had it commissioned for the occasion,” the King explained. “Daenerys, I think this is as good of a debut as any for your House.”

“I agree. Especially when my betrothed takes Aegon down to the floor.” Sansa couldn’t hide her chuckles at the Princess’ pride.

Jon rode beneath the banner, and his armor did not share any of Aegon’s glamor. It was plain steel, gray but capable, and certainly well made. Sansa could see no dents or punctures in it, even after all the jousts Jon had to perform. She saw at the very end of his lance was a silver ribbon, flowing in the wind.

Each rider approached their end of the track, and the crowd roared out in applause. “The White Prince!” some called out, while others declared “Aegon! Aegon!” It was a small civil war within the Kingdoms, as one side hoped to overrule the other with the volume of their cheers.

But then the first horn was sounded, and the passionate flames died out. Jon and Aegon lowered their lances, and Sansa could almost taste the silence. She could hear the banners being tugged by the wind, the nervous shuffling of the crowd in their seats, the slight uneven breathing by Daenerys. The King let out a small hum, as he rested his chin on his fist. His purple eyes were narrowed on his sons.

Then the second horn.

And they charged.

Their lances were true on their targets, but maybe it was the way they held their shields. Perhaps the Princes knew each other too well. But the lances did not crack, they simply slid across the surface. As their steeds trotted to the other end, the crowd applauded.

“Do they applaud for anything?” Lyanna Mormont asked with a sour look. “What if their horses take a shit? Will they applaud for that too?”

“Probably,” Viserys said.

The second charge at least had Aegon’s lance shatter and brake when Jon brought his shield to bear. Jon’s lance was far off the mark, hitting nothing but the wind. Lya narrowed her eyes. “Jon needs to do more than that. He can’t play even with his brother.”

“He knows,” Daenerys said.

“He needs to hit his brother.”

“I know that, Lya!”

With the third horn blast, Jon and Aegon charged again. “If Jon does not unmount Aegon now, he will lose. The Northman riders are strong and capable, but they do not have our constitution.”

Daenerys scrunched her nose at her brother. If Prince Viserys noticed, he didn’t show it. He was focused on the field, watching as his nephews prepared for another charge.

The lances splintered and shattered against each other. The white dragon of Jon’s shield went flying and twirling through the air, and his yells were loud and clear. The crowd became silent. “Is Jon hurt?” Dany asked? She looked to the King for answers, but Rhaegar had none to give. She leaned over the balcony, as if every inch would bring her closer to the truth.

A Maester rushed onto the field, his chains rattling. Jon offered his arm, and Sansa could see that the Maester was speaking in hushed and hurried tones. Sansa could swear she saw Jon flex his fingers and the Maester tapped against the plates over his wrists. The Maester summoned a steward and spoke to him.

“The Prince is well!” the Steward thundered. Sansa could see the bright flusters in the man’s cheeks. “Hammered but well!” A gentle applause followed and Daenerys rested back into her seat.

Lyanna turned to Daenerys. “We Northmen are made of harder stuff than that. You should know that by now, Dany.”

“One would think,” she sighed.

Jon and Aegon approached a track. Attendants brought forth fresh lance and shield. There were some shouts of “Aegon” and “Prince Jon!”, but otherwise the crowd was silent. It went unsaid, but everyone could feel it. Sansa could read it on Daenerys. Viserys leaned slightly forward. The King interweaved his fingers under his chin. The Queen narrowed her green eyes onto the field.

This would be the final charge.

For a fourth time, the horns were sounded, and with those blasts Jon and Aegon kicked at their stirrups, brought their lances down to bear, and left behind in their charge large clouds of dirt. Sansa could have sworn she heard a scream, roars fueled by hot blood. Lance hit against plate, shards of wood was scattered in every direction.

Jon twisted and tumbled as he hit the dirt. Aegon ripped off his helmet, his silver-golden hair stricken with sweat. The audience roared in approval Jon rose up, the shouts and applause merging together into a chaotic fervor. Sansa found herself springing to her feet, all modesty forgotten as she clapped with excitement.

“Jon rode well!” she said to the Princess as she rose. Sansa could not help the excitement in her voice. This was her cousin’s first tourney, and he rode with more than skill than all the rest. Her betrothed gave Jon an honest fight – and if Sansa was honest, she would have been happy with either result. She had no doubts this tourney would be well remembered – the Tourney where two Princes rode against each other.

Daenerys smiled. “He did! Four rides! A few more and it would be Jaeherys the Good’s Tourney all over again.”

“It is not a surprise,” Rhaenys said. “Aegon has been riding his whole life. I knew my bets were well placed.”

Sansa considered what it would take for Princess Rhaenys to be gracious in her victories. “My betrothed and my cousin both rode well. Jon did not make it to the final tilt by accident.”

“Lasy Sansa speaks well,” Rhaegar said in a raised tone. Even the King could hardly be heard over the uproar. “Although forty thousand dragons to my son and heir. He hardly needs it. I wonder what he has planned for it?” At that Daenerys smiled with a shade of cunning.

“Good people!” Aegon’s voice roared out, and that was enough for the approval to die down somewhat. “My purse is well earned, but it would be foolish for the King to grant his wealth to his sons! My brother and I swore, that if either of us were to win the Tourney, the purse would be returned to the people! And so it shall! Sixty thousand dragons, to the craftsman, laborers, and singers of the capitol!”

Whatever applause had died down was revived twofold, higher and stronger. Sansa could not keep herself from covering her ears. “Princess,” she said. “This was your doing.”

There was a glint in Daenerys’ purple eyes. “Use my affections for Jon to persuade Egg? My sweet sister, I would never do such a thing.”

 _You mix love with cunning in equal measure. Princess, you_ were _born in King’s Landing. The only question is, what is your end? Just what do you have planned for my cousin?_

Aegon rose Jon to his feet. He ripped off his helm, his black waves of hair shining beneath the gleams of sweat. Aegon raised his brother’s mailed fist, and the crowd roared out their names. “Aegon! Jonaehrys!”

_Aegon, what do you intend for Jon?_

**THE SON OF DAYNE**

Edric Dayne had been riding for weeks.

Blackhaven had long since become a distant memory - ever since his flight from that dark keep. It was in the depth of night when he swallowed his breath and swam beneath the sewer grates. The smell of shit overwhelmed him, but he knew what would happen if he gagged. Ned would not himself drown amongst the piss water, so he swam all the harder.

“Ride on Ned,” his Ser had told him. And so he did. He had found one of the horselords as he was taking a bush. Even as they relieved themselves, the Dothraki did not keep a second eye open. So, Ned cut out his throat and stole his horse. How the Dothraki could ride their horses with such a thin saddle he could never guess, but Ned managed to make it work.

However, he was clumsy about it. He couldn’t ride it quite like how he would his Sand Steed. Red was left behind at Blackhaven, just as the siege was coming to an end. “Ride on Ned,” Beric Dondarrion had told him, even though Ned could not bring his horse. Red was Aunt Allyria’s gift to him when he left the halls of Starfall. “Take care of my betrothed Ned,” she had commanded him.

And in return for that kindness, Ned had left his Ser to die.

The Stormland was a hotbed of traitors and turncloaks. Twice in twenty years they have sworn themselves to the usurper. Was the Baratheon line not kin to the Targaryens? Was Orlys Baratheon not the right hand to Aegon the Dragon?

As he rode, and hid in the ditches and slept with no fire in the nights, he wondered of his Ser. Why was the Lord of Blackhaven the only good man in the Stormlands? Ned was the heir to Starfall. He should have stayed with his Beric. He could have done something to turn the tide. The mercenaries could only climb so much. The walls were steep and tall and strong. Blackhaven had rested along the lines of Dorne for hundreds of years, and always managed to resist them.

What were Dothraki and sellswords compared to the spears of Dorne? To the swords of his people?

“I aim to buy you time,” Ser Beric said to him. _But why with your life? Why cast your life away for my sake?_

When the night was darkest, when the black sky was so deep that Ned could not even see his own fingers in front of his face, he would think of Dawn. He had seen the blade once, with its azure glow, when he was a child. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The very words on the blade seemed to dance with the light. Ned had always wanted to be worthy of it. Whenever he would be blistered after a hard day of training, Ned would think of how Dawn would feel in his own hands.

He imagined how hard his uncle Arthur had trained, and Ned and would work all the harder.

 _My Uncle never ran. He always stood his ground. He cut down the Smiling Knight._ In those dark nights, Ned realized he would never hold Dawn in his arms.

The pain in his legs matched the weight in his heart. He was not used to the Dothraki saddle. The coarse leather rubbed against him, and Ned felt blisters grow along his legs and his bottom. It hurt just as much to crawl to the riverbanks as it did to mount every morning.

Ned had steered himself north, keeping well clear of the high roads and the flat plains. If he was back at Starfall he could hide amongst the crags and rocky mountains of Dorne. It had been years since he visited the lightened halls of Starfall, but he knew his home. He need only close his eyes and he could picture it, clearer than day. But most of the Stormlands were a mystery to Ned. He knew the land amongst Blackhaven well enough. He knew the river that cut through the valley, the grove of trees just over the hill that overlooked the keep.

When the pain was at its worst, Ned would remember the smell of roses. The red rose bush where he had earned his manhood, as the summer sun had swelled in the clear sky. He couldn’t even remember her name, but he remembered how golden her hair was. The smile on her face as he swelled inside of her.

But the Stormlands beyond Blackhaven was a mystery. Just waves of hills filled with trees and rushing rivers, and they all looked the same to Ned. Storm’s End was always on the horizon, always watching. _I will return_ , he would swear. _I will return with Westeros. And you will be set to rights._

The days turned into weeks, and Ned began to forget what it meant to sleep in a featherbed. He slept along the hard ground and cushioned his head against tree trunks and flat stones. The days rolled by, and Ned wondered if he would ever be safe. How much would he need to munch on this salted beef? He would soak it for hours, and only then would it be soft enough to rip through.

Was King’s Landing just a myth; a thing of legend? Were the Kingdoms bonded together by an illusion? The days seemed to merge together, and the capitol forged by the Dragon seemed no closer. The thought earned more truth every day.

But in turn, Storm’s Landing became a distant memory. That paramount keep had now vanished from the horizon. Once Ned slipped by the Bronzegate, he knew he was close. He had to be. The bronze flag of the stag would be replaced by the dark banner of the Targaryens. Of King Rhaegar, the Lord of the Realm.

Of King’s Landing.

Within days the capitol was in sight. He could see the red walls rise above the horizon, as it looked over the coast. The towers were stretched out like fingers.

As his strength left him, Ned reached out for them. He had ridden too fast, too hard, with too little sleep. He always rose before the sun, and he only rested after the moon had settled. He had obeyed his Ser to the letter. “Reach the Crownlands before this bastard, Ned. You must.” The Dothraki mount had perished days ago; Ned had worn it to its bone, to the very brink of its life.

King’s Landing was so far away. He could hold it in his hands. But as he crawled amongst the crowd, as his feet bled from the blisters, he felt light. So light that he could fly. But he came no closer to King’s Landing.

Why couldn’t he reach the city? It was in his hands. Why couldn’t he pull it to him?

He did what he could. He was only one man.

That was when he tumbled into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we have things coming to a head. For months you have been waiting for the Golden Company to arrive. And, oh, how they have landed. Even with a significant amount of their forces seperated by a storm, they sweep through the Storm Lands. There was a reason why we had that scandal in the court last chapter - it was to set up the Stormlands' betrayal in this chapter. I also had Renly's offering to Gendyr be a mirror to what happened with Orys Baratheon and Argella Durrandon. Just a cute little nod to Westerosi history. 
> 
> With the Dany chapter, I pretty much just wanted to set up the "big event" of the next chapter. Still, we get some insight into Jon and Dany's relationship. 
> 
> I felt we needed a return of the Theon perspective, and I felt a travel montage was the way to do it. I wanted to show that the North still wouldn't accept Theon, even if Robb loves him like a brother. I am not romanticizing the North here. The Northmen are shown as contradictory in plenty of instances, and I am continuing that trend here. We do get the Reeds on the scene, though. How will they play out in the story?
> 
> And we get to the Tourney, the namesake of the chapter. No surprise that it is the longest perspective. I have to be honest, I was not terribly happy with how this came out. Mostly due to my word usage; I tended to use the same phrases throughout the perspective. However, there are some elements I did like. I did enjoy showing the relative rivalry between the different wings of the royal family, and we get a big mystery regarding the Cleganes. What DID Gregor do to be branded a criminal, and why after nearly 20 years has Sandor been unable to catch him? I mean, he is called the Mountain-That-Rides for a reason. He shouldn't be able to hide very well.
> 
> And we get a new perspective, with Edric Dayne, heir to Starfall. He has escaped the siege on Blackhaven - or did he? Let's hope he didn't kill himself with his exhaustion.

**Author's Note:**

> Any beta readers interested in helping me can reach me at: doublehex168 at gmail dot com.


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